


The Golden Ring

by analect



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analect/pseuds/analect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nelaros arrives in Denerim for his impending wedding, unaware of the dark turn that events will take. </p>
<p>(Feasting on Dreams universe; f!Tabris is my freckly, ungainly Merien.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a simple retelling of the City Elf Origin, from Nelaros' point of view. The f!Tabris here is Merien Tabris from my Feasting on Dreams series, in all her ungainly, freckly, awkward glory. Caveats for violence, implied sexual violence and, obviously, not-very-happy-endings. Marking for major character death, even though we all know poor old Nelaros' main function is to bite the dust.

The wagon creaked rhythmically, swaying a little with every slow plod the oxen took along the muddy road. The caravan was not large: just three carts loaded with goods, and one bow-topped wagon that held supplies, and sleeping arrangements for the merchant, his son, and the two other ox drivers, who were apparently part of his extended family. Nelaros, like the merchant’s two elven servants, was supposed to take his chances sleeping on the cart… as was the girl travelling with them.

He thought it was appalling. Among his people, a young woman would have been accorded far more respect—not to mention somewhere warm and dry to sleep. Then again, the merchant’s son had made _that_ offer not long after they left Highever and, although the boy’s father had given him a clip around the ear and told him not to harass their paying passengers, even if they _were_ knife-ears, Nelaros had ensured he hadn’t left the girl alone near any of the humans since.

Her name was Valora, and she said they were going to be cousins, of a kind, once they were both wedded to their respective betrotheds. Nelaros wasn’t sure he was thrilled with that notion, but he supposed their travelling together made the business of heading into marriage in a strange city very slightly less terrifying. It should have done, anyway. As it was, he had spent the past several days—which, frankly, had felt more like an age—acting the role of the girl’s protector; something that, really, she should have had a male relative, or at least a marriage broker to do.

He hadn’t known her back home—back in Highever, he corrected, for though he’d lived there all his life, it wasn’t his home any longer—but she seemed pleasant enough. She wore a very modest brown dress, and had a heavy fall of pale brown hair a little at odds with her tanned skin. He supposed there might be some Antivan blood in her somewhere, judging by the colouring, though if so it was an amusing coincidence, because there was absolutely nothing of a fiery northern temperament about her. She was small, and quiet, and not very pretty, with worried brown eyes and a tragic overbite.

Still, he felt sorry for her. They were both a long way from everything they’d ever known, with nothing but a pit of uncertainty yawning before them. Of course, such was the very nature of anyone’s marriage, but the long, bone-rattling miles of roadway had put the matter into sharp perspective.

They had talked quite a bit on the journey; Nelaros had learned that Valora’s father had been a labourer and her mother a seamstress, though both had been dead for a number of years, and she had little family in the Highever alienage, except a cousin who worked in the kitchens of a local tavern. With no parent to represent her, she had been obliged to take the best match Hahren Sarethia had been able to secure and—Valora had confided in a soft, breathy whisper—she was very grateful for the hahren’s arrangement, because she’d never thought to see the capital, and it was surely a wonderful place.

“And what about your groom?” Nelaros had asked, mildly amused by the mantras the girl seemed to cling to. “Does he sound wonderful as well?”

She’d blushed a little, and tucked her small, delicate hands up in her sleeves.

“I… I really don’t know anything about him, except that the hahren says he’s an orphan, like me, and he’s a second cousin of the girl you’ll be marrying. Hahren Sarethia says _her_ father is paying for Soris’ and my wedding also… doesn’t that sound generous?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

Well, it _did_. There was no denying that. The matchmaker had told Nelaros’ parents many enticing tales of Cyrion Tabris and his welcome generosity. The family was supposed to be quite well-connected… or so the broker said. Tabris had been in service in the palace district for many years, and they rented a cottage at the best end of the alienage, close to the market-side gate. Apparently, that was a big thing, although Nelaros lacked enough familiarity with the city’s layout to fully appreciate it.

His father had told him to be grateful. After all, it could have been a lot worse. Sure, Denerim was a long journey, but it was the capital! He was going to a great city—birthplace of Andraste, no less—where he would be at the centre of everything. There would be more opportunities for work, better housing, better living… who knew what good fortune it could bring, especially to one who was not an only child, and whose family were very grateful indeed for the sizeable dowry payment the girl’s father had offered.

Nelaros sat grimly in the swaying cart, and stole another look at Valora. She seemed to grow even more nervous the closer they got to Denerim, her gaze ever flitting to the trees and fields beyond the roadside, or the rooftops of villages, or even the wildflowers that sagged in the hedgerows, blowsy with the just-past echoes of late summer. She looked terrified of everything.

They should arrive within the day now, the merchant said. Nelaros took deep breaths of the cool, clean air—his last lungfuls of freedom—and, like his travelling companion, watched the scenery roll by. It was more of the outside world than he’d ever seen before. He’d left the alienage only once or twice, and even then not gone far beyond city bounds: just a few errands for his master at the forge, run between the river and the outskirts of the forest, where the coppicers kept a charcoal kiln.

He missed that. Missed the smell of smoke and the searing, thick heat of the furnace… the anvil’s song, the blinding whites and oranges of hot metal, and the hissing, spitting alchemy of quenching new iron.

Oh, he would never have his own smithy. He knew that. An elven blacksmith was a ridiculous notion—who’d get their horses shod at an elf’s shop?—but he had worked at the craft for years, and he was good enough to be a reliable apprentice. Master Yehrel had said so and, besides, if the customers didn’t know who did the hammering and who was there just to pump the bellows, what did they care that an elf had made their hinges, locks, shoes, and nails? What they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them.

His thoughts turned to the wedding ring, wrapped in cloth and securely tucked in his innermost pocket. Master Yehrel had helped him craft it: a thin brass band, gilded with what scraps of gold Nelaros had been able to lay hands upon. It wasn’t a rich treasure, but it was the finest, most delicate piece of work he’d ever done.

He hoped his bride would like it. He hoped it fitted, too… but there was no sense in worrying about it now. Not when they were this close to the city.

He could already make out the shape of Denerim on the skyline. It was a dark, jagged silhouette, just past the heavy profile of Dragon’s Peak, and with the patchwork of traffic pooling outside the gates like a heaving mass of ants. The roads had been getting busier as they started the approach, though at least that _did_ lessen the probability of bandits. They’d been lucky on that front since Highever—one group of armed men who looked decidedly disreputable had ridden past, but the caravan was clearly carrying nothing more interesting than the most basic of trade supplies, so they hadn’t been bothered.

That was a relief, if for no other reason than that Nelaros was fairly sure Valora wouldn’t have coped. She seemed frightened by every raincloud, and she sat so tucked in on herself that she reminded him of some small bird, huddled in its own drab feathers to hide from the weather.

Ah, but he was being unfair. She was pleasant enough… although, privately, he had to admit that he couldn’t help wondering if he was going to do any better when it came to his spouse. He’d asked the broker if his bride was pretty, and been worried by the man’s fixed smile and slightly panicked eyes.

_I’ve met her. She’s charming. Everything you could hope for in a wife: obedient, clean, polite… a virgin, of course. Very morally upright family. She’s kept the house since her mother died, and it’s immaculate. And she cooks! Darns, sews—_

_—Yes, but what does she look like?_

The broker had shifted uneasily. _Brown hair, brown eyes… nice eyes, mind you. She has all her teeth, too, you know… and a good figure. Very good figure. A nice face. The kind of face a man could come home to_ , he’d said, evidently clutching at straws.

Nelaros had not been inspired by that statement. Still, as his mother had pointed out, what use was a beautiful wife? A girl who coasted through life on her looks usually knew nothing of hard work or duty, and her morality was often questionable. Much better a girl who was tolerably pretty, but sweet-natured, and they said Merien had _that_ in spades.

He wasn’t so sure. If she was so sweet and dutiful, how come she was still unmarried at twenty? Almost twenty-one, in fact, given how long it had taken to finalise the arrangements. He suspected her father was to blame. He seemed very… traditional. Over-protective, certainly. He hadn’t allowed them to exchange letters, for example, despite the fact that the matchmaker had said Merien could both read and write a little. She was accomplished, apparently, although she had no trade. Accomplished at what, Nelaros wasn’t entirely sure, and yet he had to admit that he liked the sound of a girl who could keep a home running, and knew enough figuring and letters to count coppers and budget for the price of bread.

He’d need that kind of support while he set himself up with work. His father had a cousin who’d been making enquiries at some of the forges in Denerim, and claimed to have the name of a smith who might consider taking an elven apprentice, which sounded promising. And yet… yet he still worried. He worried that his sweet and dutiful bride would end up being a doltish hag, and that his new father-in-law would be a martinet, ruling every aspect of their life for years to come, until they were blindly clinging on, waiting for the old man to die. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect. And all this in an unfamiliar city… with no relatives, no friends, and no one to turn to when he needed to complain, because the Denerim alienage would be full of _her_ relatives.

It was frightening, really, though he’d done his best to make a good impression in advance. Cyrion might not have allowed personal letters for fear of impropriety, but he _had_ consented to size a piece of string to Merien’s finger and send it along, so Nelaros could smith her ring. It was a nice gesture… and something that he’d enjoyed doing. It had been good of Master Yehrel to help him, too, and Nelaros reflected sadly on how much he would miss the smith. He was a good man, for a human, though he had seemed to find the whole matter of elven wedding customs quaint, which Nelaros disliked intensely. He wrinkled his lip at the memory of his old master’s indulgent, red-cheeked smile… his chortling at the picturesque little ways the knife-ears had among themselves. Such human arrogance! As if their poverty, imposed upon them by shemlen law, took away their dignity and bled the honour from their lives.

Still, he supposed he had no need to think of that any longer. Denerim reared up on the horizon, and Nelaros had no doubt that life there would be very different. Maybe the shems would take less notice of elves than they did in Highever; maybe a bigger place meant bigger crowds, and crowds were always easy to get lost in.

Yes… a new city awaited. A new life. A new bride.

He only hoped it worked out well.


	2. Chapter 2

The city was more overwhelming than Nelaros could possibly have expected. Outside the gates, hordes of traders, travellers, carts and horses jostled, and a dozen different smells battled on the air, mostly surpassed by the scents of dung and grime, horses and oxen, along with the sharp, overpowering odour of human sweat. So _many_ humans… people, everywhere.

Denerim was so much bigger than he’d expected. It was hard to even take in the entirety of the city’s silhouette, rising up against the sky, encircled by bulging, ancient walls from which life spilled like the runnels of wine from an overflowing cup.

Nelaros stared at everything, trying to drink it all in. Crowds of people, other carts, other traders, all pressed close as they made their way through the gates, and the irritable guards began to call for orderly lines and waited turns.

The merchant in whose wagon they sat hissed a breath through his teeth and muttered in annoyance. Nelaros glanced at Valora, who looked predictably terrified. Highever had its busy times, but even market day wasn’t as crowded as this, and the alienage very rarely saw such bustle at all. She caught his eye, and he gave her a small, comforting smile. The sunlight glinted on her pale brown hair, and she looked so small… so vulnerable.

He felt oddly angry in that moment. It didn’t seem fair that she should be here like this, sent away with so little. Both of them, in fact, had been given a raw deal; this half-weight wedding party, with no broker, no relatives to accompany them. They had merely been tossed on the cart like feed sacks, packed and sent away, their dowries pocketed and their lives signed over with no second thought.

That was nervousness talking, of course. Nelaros knew better than to question the way things were done—the way they had always been done—and he was aware that this sudden surge of resentment stemmed from fear and nothing more. And yet, as he stared up at the bulk of the capital, squatting against the sky, it seemed as if he and the girl really had been abandoned… shunted off to this new place with no foothold of familiarity, no care for their fears or worries. She had no one: no father or brother to speak for her, not even a cousin to stand by her, and no broker of her own. There was little to no dowry at all, as Nelaros understood it, but whatever had been paid had gone straight to Hahren Sarethia. He knew his groom-price had been gratefully received by his parents—and he’d never expected anything different, because they had other children to settle besides him—and, in truth, he was glad to be doing something that helped them. He couldn’t stay in Highever indefinitely, expecting them to support him. Much better to face his new life boldly and become a man, secure in the knowledge that these first steps into his future would bring comfort and peace to his family.

He missed them, of course. The weight of that had sat heavily on his heart since he left… since the first day the marriage was brokered, in fact, but it only felt real now. For the first time, Nelaros was truly aware of how it felt to know he would most likely never see his parents again. Never see anyone he’d known, nor set foot in any familiar street or building.

Knowing it as a fact—as he had known it would be since he was a boy, unless a girl was found to come to Highever—should have prepared him, he supposed, and for a long while he’d believed it had. He’d believed he was ready for it, adjusted to it… but now the whole cold weight of that truth seemed to open up around him, baring him to its undeniable existence, and it hit him harder than he’d ever expected it would.

Of course, it was impossible to say anything. It would have been wrong to try and discuss it with Valora—cruel, when she had no family of her own to miss—and, in any case, he had no desire to show his weakness in front of her. He had preferred to think instead of the new life ahead of him, and all the possibilities and potential pit-falls it contained. But now… now, as the cart eased through the crowds and brought them through the immense, towering gates of the city, fear took hold of his heart and squeezed.

The city walls were thicker than Nelaros had believed stone could be. Feet of it, solid and ancient, broken only by the gates, which were made of wood so old and grey it seemed like stone itself, studded with iron braces and nails each the size of a fist. He couldn’t imagine the kinds of horrors such barriers were intended to keep out although—with the silhouette of Dragon’s Peak casting its weighty shadow over everything—it was hard to keep pictures of fire-breathing monsters out of his mind. They said dragons were back, didn’t they? Seen over the Frostbacks, like a terrible memory from a dark time.

Maybe it was a sign that the world was going mad… or just that it was ripe for change. He couldn’t tell which.

The city guards—a handful of rough-looking shems in splinted leather armour, with iron helmets unfaced on their heads, each wearing either a bored or resentful scowl—gave the cart a cursory inspection. Valora was practically shaking to start with, overwhelmed by their entrance into the city, and she almost yelped aloud at the incursion of the men, their broad, gloved hands rooting through the sacks and crates amid which she sat. Nelaros caught her eye with a hard stare, warning her silently to remain still and quiet. She must have understood, for she tilted her chin down, turning her pointed little face toward her lap and lowering her gaze. She held her hands tightly folded in her sleeves, but he could still see them tremble.

The guards let them pass without trouble, though the merchant still seemed irritable at some perceived delay. He deposited Nelaros and Valora not far inside the gates, at one of the busy thoroughfares clogged with carts and pedestrians trying to make their way between the market and the road.

“Well?” the shem demanded, glaring at them. “Go on! Get going. I don’t have all day to babysit a pair o’ damn knife-ears. You’ve had your ride, now go.”

Valora was clutching the two leather bags she’d brought from Highever—her trousseau and every worldly possession she owned, which was apparently even less than Nelaros—and she stood with her lip wobbling and her fingers digging into the bags as he unloaded his trunk from the back of the cart.

“Which way to the alienage?” Nelaros asked the man, only to be rewarded with a sneer and a vague wave towards the north side of the thoroughfare.

“Eh, follow the stink,” the merchant grumbled. “Go through the market, you’ll find the gate.”

Nelaros would have thanked him, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be polite, so he hauled the last of their baggage—his baggage, he supposed—down from the cart and ushered Valora away. She held her bags to her as if they were a cross between precious children and a protective shield, her eyes wide and her narrow lips slightly parted as she stared at the seething mass of life that flowed around them.

Denerim was larger than either of them had anticipated. Dustier, too. Dirtier, smellier… the aromas of several street food stalls collided on the air as they made their way towards the market, and it was soon met by the smells of smoked meats and cheeses on traders’ barrows, not to mention the exotic perfumes and strange goods that merchants had displayed on their stands.

The market square spread out much further than Highever’s. There, the traders were licensed by the castle, and most of the livelier shopping was associated with the fairs that were held every couple of annums. Here, it seemed as if every market day was Midsummer, and the traders’ stalls all appeared to be in competition with each other to put on the brightest, most impressive show. Valora squeaked, drawing close to Nelaros at the sight of one stand—set up in the lee of a great multicoloured awning from which hung strings of bright flags—manned by a large, bearded human standing guard over a cage that contained a live bear.

Nelaros was torn between disorientation and awe. It was different than he’d expected; impressive, certainly, but it all seemed so wild and disorganised. He began to worry what kind of people the Denerim alienage might be home to, and his concerns were compounded when a woman called out to them from the end of a cheesemonger’s stall.

“New in town, handsome?”

Nelaros winced, aware of Valora’s wide-eyed presence at his elbow, and turned to the source of the voice. She was pretty: a tall elven girl with long, wavy, reddish-brown hair that hung down her back, skin the colour of honey, and pale lavender eyes. Her smile was altogether too wide and too free, however, and she wore a sky blue dress cut like a human’s, puffed and ruched at the sleeves, bust, and hips. She made a fine figure in it, true, but not a respectable one, and there was nothing remotely respectable about the appraising glance and flirtatious smile she threw Nelaros’ way.

“We’re looking for the alienage,” he said, eyeing what looked like dabs of rouge on her cheeks. “I have our travel papers—”

And that was a stupid thing to say. She wasn’t interested in those. He felt his cheeks begin to pinken and, predictably, the girl laughed. She was missing one of her upper teeth, and the rest of them weren’t too good, though he doubted it detracted much from her charms… especially for the shemlen she probably entertained.

“You won’t need those unless the guard stops you,” she assured him, shaking her head and leaning on the wooden ledge of the trader’s stall, exposing an ample cleavage and shapely shoulders as she nodded towards the far side of the market. “Gate’s over there. Past the tulip sellers. Can’t miss it. Don’t worry… it’s open until sundown. Valendrian’s house is just around the corner—you’ll spot it from the open door.”

“Uh… thank you.” Nelaros nodded gratefully, feeling just a little guilty for the way his judgements of the girl seemed to echo inside his head with the sound of his mother’s voice. “Thank you, uh…?”

“Selira,” the girl supplied, grinning. “Selira Naris. I live over in the third ward, by the north gate. You here for that big wedding? Cyrion Tabris’ girl?”

“Ye-es….” Nelaros shot a look at Valora. Selira hadn’t even acknowledged her presence, but the little mouse didn’t seem offended. If anything, she looked terrified by the girl.

Selira nodded, rolling her eyes. “I thought so! Everybody’s talking about it. _Quite_ the show. Still, it’s a free party, right? Finally, that family does something for the rest of us…!”

She might have said more, but the cheesemonger returned from whatever errand he had been running, and greeted her with a scowl and a shake of one meaty hand.

“Selira! I don’t pay you to stand around gabbin’! Back to work. And you! Clear off! Bloody knife-ears….”

Nelaros half-expected a thrown stone or a threat to call the guard, but the shem seemed content with a muted grumble, so he relaxed a little, easing his grip on the luggage he carried, his heartbeat slowing just a fraction. Selira winked at him as he began to shepherd Valora in the direction she’d pointed.

“Maybe I’ll see you around, handsome!”

Nelaros grimaced. He rather hoped not although—if his bride turned out to be as hideous as he feared from the broker’s ominous silence—perhaps he’d wish for a wife who looked like that, even if she _was_ of dubious reputation.

He pushed the thought from his mind as soon as it settled there. Ridiculous, of course. No man would want to marry a girl who dressed like Selira, no matter how pretty she was. Highever had plenty of girls willing to show a man a good time, and he’d learned early the distinction between that and a potential wife. No, better a respectable girl he could trust, if their marriage was to be worth any kind of vow at all.

Nelaros glanced at Valora. Her eyes were like saucers beneath her heavy fringe, her mouth still set into that half-open look of stunned surprise.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He did genuinely feel sorry for her and, Maker take it, he _had_ rather come to like her in the time they’d spent together… but he was still looking forward immensely to the point at which he would no longer feel responsible for her. Nelaros was tired, and eager for nothing more than an end to the journey, and maybe a little rest before the preparations for the wedding began.

Valora nodded timorously. “Oh, I’m fine. Thank you. We should find the hahren, shouldn’t we?”

Nelaros hefted his trunk and bags, and squinted across the cobbled square to the alienage gate: a tall slice cut into the walls of the buildings that overlooked the square—the garrison, maybe?—and across which a heavy portcullis had been raised. The curfew ran from sundown to dawn, then… that was reasonably lenient. He’d heard of much worse. A ragged collection of stalls fringed the gate, and he recognised their kind. They weren’t the same as the merchants’ stands, which were each set to leased plots. These were rickety, temporary attempts at trade: elven women, either young and unmarried or old and widowed, all selling gloves, flowers, embroidery… the safe and acceptable forms of employ for those without trade or family.

There was something familiar about the sight, though it wasn’t entirely comforting. Everything in Denerim was different—even the streets were laid out wrong, set purely to confuse him—and Nelaros was surprised by how much the sight of the gate trade tables made him ache for home.

He wasn’t going to show as much in front of Valora, of course, so he straightened his back and nodded towards the gate.

“Come on. Let’s find our way, and then we can get settled.”

She nodded fervently, scurrying along at his side and still clutching her bags like they would protect her from the world, while Nelaros scanned the faces of the women setting up their wares.

For all he knew, any one of them might be his bride… and that thought terrified him far more than he’d imagined it could.


	3. Chapter 3

Denerim’s alienage was just as vast, chaotic and unwieldy as the rest of the city, and it came as a jolt to Nelaros’ senses. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected: something bigger than Highever, certainly, but this?

The place spread out on all sides, streets leading from streets, huge and sprawling tenements bundled up against the walls, interspersed with what looked like warehouses mostly run to ruin, and shambolic wooden houses that each sprawled over two or three floors. There were smaller properties too, distinguished by smart wooden shutters beneath their wonky roofs, and front steps that were swept spotless.

Here and there, buildings that were either in mid-repair—or, more likely, had fallen down where they stood and been cannibalised for timber and any useful fitments—presented their innards like half-carved meat, joists poking like bone through splintered, dismantled walls. The same cobblestones that paved the marketplace had been used on the alienage’s central streets, but they appeared to have been in disrepair for years, the pitted and chipped stones petering away under layers of mud and rubbish. Boards had been laid over the most uneven ground in some places, allowing barrows to be pushed more easily, and making picking one’s way through the chaos slightly less difficult. Stray dogs wandered the narrow alleys between the buildings, sniffing out morsels of food or considering chasing the odd skinny cat that slunk along the uneven roofs and gables.

Nelaros glanced up, amazed by the jumbled silhouettes of the city that crowded against the alienage walls. Denerim’s towers and rooftops stood dark against the pale, dawn-tinged sky, though the puffy, pink-hued clouds were obscured by the criss-crossed mesh of elven washing lines, strung from the upper storeys of houses and laden down with more clothing than he’d ever seen in his life.

It was more than a district, Nelaros decided. It was the biggest, most impressively crowded knot of life and bustle he had ever seen, so full of intricacy and colour. This was a city within a city… far more than Highever’s alienage had been.

Back ho— back in _Highever,_ he corrected himself, the alienage was for the most part a pit: windowless timber shacks lining narrow, filth-caked streets, everything clogged with disease-ridden beggars and an overwhelming stink of fear. There, elves lived quietly, hoping to avoid the anger of humans, and while frustration frequently did break through the veneer of acquiescence—never leading to anything good for anyone—it was a shadow of a place, defined by the kind of hopelessness cultivated over generations.

It had its nicer parts, he supposed; many families didn’t actually live entirely in abject squalor, and the community was tight-knit, but the very fact they were few in numbers made it an oppressive environment. There was nowhere to run if trouble flared, and feuds invariably erupted between families, which Hahren Sarethia could do little to arbitrate effectively.

Nelaros had never known any other hahren than her and, now he was away from the city, a sneaking part of him felt liberated at being allowed to air thoughts he would once have quashed. Sarethia was a bitter woman, thin and worn at the edges, with sallow cheeks and hollow eyes, and all her favourite stories were about the suffering of their people. The elves of Highever held her as their wisest and brightest leader, and her intelligence was obvious… but he had often suspected it was the very thing that made her so sour. She knew better than most how little was open to them, and she took no comfort in the old ways and superstitions to which so many of their kind clung.

He could only imagine how disdainful she would have been at stepping into a place like this. Yes, it was far from opulent—the very air still said ‘alienage’, heavy with the smell of dirt, decay, and poverty—but it was so full of _life_!

He watched a small pack of grubby children burst of out an alleyway, almost colliding with a woman who carried a bundle of laundry on her hip. She scowled at them and cuffed the nearest child on the back of the head.

“Gaa’rrrn!” she snapped, in what would prove to be Nelaros’ first direct experience of Denerim’s famously hard, flat vowels. “I know your mother, Nethis Sennon! You whelps watch what you’re about, now, or you’ll feel the flat of her hand when I tell her!”

There didn’t seem to be much genuine heat in the warning, and the children pelted away in a shower of grinning faces and dirty knees, while the washerwoman shook her head and carried on her way. A few men in rough tunics and leather jerkins were heading grimly in the opposite direction; they had the look of dockers, and one had a blurry tattoo on his arm… something Nelaros had always considered a rather human tradition. 

He looked at Valora, expecting to find her cowering timidly, and was a little surprised to see the enthusiasm that shimmered in her eyes as she stared at everything around them.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she breathed, actually _smiling_ at him for once. “I never thought it would be so… so big! Oh…! Oh, Maker! Look over there!”

The delight in her voice seemed powerful enough to physically carry her forward, and she took several steps past him, still hugging her luggage to herself as she cooed in wonder at the sight of the alienage’s main square.

It was, Nelaros had to admit, impressive. The square lay just along the street from the market gate, the old cobbled road less broadening than spilling out into an expanse of packed dirt, gravel, and whatever cobblestones remained beneath the muck. A large dais stood to one side—plain wood, like the one they had in Highever, though much bigger—from which the hahren no doubt addressed his people. Ramshackle wooden buildings fringed each side of the square, though what had drawn Valora’s attention was the jewel that stood at its centre: the vhenadahl.

The great tree stretched up well beyond the height of the walls, its boughs twisted with age but its leaves thick and green, still in the height of their summer gloss. In the early morning air its colours were muted, but its size and presence remained undeniable… just as undeniable as the effect it had on him.

Nelaros stared at the tree. Back in Highever, their vhenadahl had withered. It had happened a long while ago. Hahren Sarethia was not a sentimentalist, and she had disparaged the stories and metaphors that were supposed to twist through the roots of the great tree. She called them foolish, called the vhenadahl itself little more than firewood, and so the tradition had never been replenished. He hadn’t thought much of it before and, in truth, Nelaros did not feel suddenly struck by the beauty of vhenadahl as a symbol of anything… although it _was_ a beautiful tree. It reminded him of his errands to the coppicers for his old master, and of those sneaking moments when—just for a few seconds—he had wondered what it would be like to flee into the forest and leave his life behind him.

He wondered what Valora thought when she looked at it. Perhaps she imagined it an omen of fresh growth and wonderful possibilities. He hoped so; he wanted to believe in those things himself.

“Well,” he said, prompting her to collect herself and shoot him a look of slight embarrassment, her face still flushed with uncharacteristic glee, “shall we find the hahren’s house?”

**_~o~O~o~_ **

Hahren Valendrian’s house was at least easy to find: a blessing, given the sheer size of the alienage. It stood to one side of the square, door open, just as Salira had said, and it was one of the most palatial elven dwellings Nelaros had ever seen. A wide house with low ceilings and a large stone hearth, it looked to have about three rooms, including a space at the back dominated by a selection of cooking pots and a tiny bread oven.

A woman with a loose bun of grey hair and heavy-lidded amber eyes introduced herself as Nera, the hahren’s sister, and told them he would return presently from his business at the orphanage. She seated them on wooden chairs at the front of the house, beside an unshuttered window that bore panes of waxed paper, and offered them food and drink.

The journey had been long, and they thanked her eagerly, though Nelaros couldn’t wait for her to bustle away and fetch them some breakfast so he could catch Valora’s attention.

“‘Orphanage’?” he whispered, raising his brows.

“I know!” Her golden eyes were wide as pennies again, her face full of excitement that almost seemed to outweigh the apprehension. “Do you think that’s really…? They have an orphanage here? For _elves_?”

Nelaros shook his head incredulously. If it was true, it was marvellous. In Highever, there were neither the resources nor organisation for the alienage to care for its most vulnerable, however nice the idea might have been. Children were precious—especially when families like his, with multiple offspring, were uncommon—but, if their parents died, they became the responsibility of whatever remaining relatives or friends were prepared to take them. In a place where feeding the mouths families already had was hard enough, there was no other provision for the desperate, even if beggary was their only alternative.

Nera brought them cups of weak tea, thick slices of brown bread with a little mousetrap cheese, and half an apple each, and they ate and drank gratefully. As he chewed, Nelaros

He wondered if the Chantry had helped at all in founding Denerim’s orphanage, or if the stories were true and there really _were_ elven families in this alienage who had a small amount of wealth. His bride’s father had certainly been very generous with coin so far… maybe it boded well for his new life in this community.

Valora cleared her throat, sitting up straighter in her chair, and Nelaros glanced up to see the man he took to be the hahren arriving, wiping his boots carefully as he stepped through the door.

Nera went to greet him, and Nelaros heard her explaining in hushed tones that he and Valora were the entirety of the wedding party. She seemed concerned and disappointed that there were only the two of them, but Hahren Valendrian hushed her, patting her arm gently.

She didn’t look all that placated, but she bustled off back to the rear of the house nonetheless, and the hahren came to greet them, a smile on his face.

He was an old man—or he looked it, with grey hair and deep wrinkles—but he seemed spry and strong enough in his body and his movements that he could have been younger. Nelaros supposed a lifetime of responsibility for a place like this would have an aging effect on anyone. His smile seemed warm and genuine, but didn’t look like something he did often, judging by the deep troughs across his forehead, and around his nose and mouth.

“You are most welcome, children,” Valendrian said, “even if it is a little earlier than we expected.”

“Oh?” Nelaros cleared his throat. “My apologies, elder. We meant to cause no inconvenience, but—”

“No, no, not at all.” The hahren lifted a soothing hand, silencing him. “As a matter of fact, I think this will be most… fortuitous.”

Nelaros frowned, curious as to what the old man meant by that. Valora had defaulted to her scared mouse pose, her gaze lowered and her hands clasped tightly around the glazed cup still half-full of tea. He couldn’t tell whether she’d thought that choice of words was odd or not, but… ah, who knew?

“I don’t think it will take much to bring the ceremony forward,” Valendrian continued, his expression growing thoughtful, as he was calculating possibilities and numbers in his head. “No… not much at all. Of course, that would be preferable, I’m sure you both agree. It’s either that or finding somewhere to board you in the meantime, and I am afraid we are not overburdened with options that are, uh, suitable.”

Valora looked up quickly at that, apprehension in her wide amber eyes. “W-We didn’t mean to cause trouble, elder,” she said, in a voice softer and more tremulous than duck down blown on a strong wind.

Valendrian smiled again—perhaps it _was_ something he did often, despite his first appearance—and shook his head.

“Not at all, child. Please, don’t worry. I merely want to make sure your welcome to our community is proper. If we can bring the ceremony forward—say, to this afternoon, if Mother Boann is willing—we can make sure you’re settled as quickly as possible. I think that’s best, don’t you?”

“We do it _today_?” Valora squeaked, apparently forgetting a little of her timidity.

She looked positively panicked. Nelaros was tempted to laugh, but quashed the impulse as best he could. Not to mention, what was this talk of a Mother? Did the Chantry really officiate elven services? Nelaros filed his surprise away for later, opting to acquiesce rather than question the hahren.

“Well, it happens sooner or later,” he said, giving Valora a small, encouraging smile. “Best jump in with both feet, no? And of course if the hahren says it’s wise….”

He nodded respectfully to Valendrian, who returned the gesture with an inclination of his head.

“I admit,” the hahren said, amusement playing in his tone, “the whole alienage is looking forward to the party. I believe a few of Adaia’s people—your bride’s late mother—have arrived to pay their respects, and the Tabrises are well known locally. You won’t want for guests. But… I’m sure you’ve had a long and difficult journey. You’ll want a rest before the excitement begins.”

Nelaros and Valora exchanged glances.

“Whatever you think best, elder,” she said demurely, returning her gaze to her tea.

Valendrian nodded, as if thinking something over to himself, and moved to the open door, peering across the square. “At least, if Cyrion agrees, you two won’t have to wait out the time in one of the bunkhouses. Yes, I think it’s preferable for everyone. Ah… there, you see? The Maker smiles on us with good fortune—I see your bridegroom now, my dear.”

Valora nearly choked on her sip of tea, turning wide-eyed and even more nervous than before. Nelaros couldn’t really blame her but, all the same, he found he was looking forward to all of this being over, and the possibility that matrimony might help the girl start to grow a backbone.

Valendrian leaned out of the door into the warm summer air, calling across the dirt-packed square. “Soris! _Soris_! Oh, for the Maker’s— Yes! You! Soris, come here, child.”

Nelaros waggled his eyebrows at Valora encouragingly. She winced, but he stood up, offering her his hand. “Come on. Let’s go meet your groom, shall we?”

She gave him a look that, if it had come from any of the girls he’d known in Highever, would have been scathing. On her, the same expression was a little like being hit gently with a soft, wet cloth.

As they moved to the door of the hahren’s house, Nelaros saw a young man with a shock of jaw-length red hair jogging across the square. He caught sight of them—of Valora, mostly—and stared awkwardly, the moment of realisation colliding with movement and, mid-stride, he then proceeded to nearly fall over his own feet.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, his arms outstretched for balance as he righted himself. “Oh… uh… um. H-hello.”

Nelaros fought hard against the urge to laugh. The boy must have been close in age to him, but he seemed much younger. He was an ungainly youth, no longer gawky or attenuated, but still less than graceful, and he had a face like a heavily freckled potato. His wide blue eyes—a very sharp, pure, elven blue—were framed by lashes and brows so pale as to be virtually invisible, and his expression morphed quickly from one of surprise to one of out-and-out fear as he evidently realised who they were.

“Oh, my! You’re the… you’re the wedding party, aren’t you? I— oh, Maker, I didn’t realise…!”

Nelaros bit his tongue, hard. Yes. The perfect match for poor, timid Valora.

“I am Nelaros,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “This is Valora.”

He extended a hand, drawing the girl forward to present her to her new husband as graciously as possible… a tall order, when _she_ was quaking like a mouse and staring at her feet, and _he_ had turned pale as milk and was moving his mouth like a fish.

“Uh…. I’m Soris,” the prospective bridegroom said, finally finding his voice. “It’s, um, nice to, uh… nice to… see you. Meet you. Here. Uh….”

There was a note of panic in his voice that Nelaros supposed—if the roles were reversed and _he_ had just been presented with a bride who looked like a wet duck—he would probably have shared. Soris gaped hopelessly at him, at least until Valendrian took pity on the three of them.

“Soris, I want you to go to your uncle and tell him that the wedding party has arrived early, and that it would be in their best interests to bring the ceremony forward. He can come to me if he wishes to discuss the arrangements,” the hahren added meaningfully, as Soris’ mouth fell open and he started to say something that would no doubt have been a protestation of surprise and panic.

The boy’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded respectfully. “Yes, elder.”

“Good lad. Nelaros, you may wish to accompany him… present yourself to your bride’s father. Valora will have her own preparations to attend to, I’m sure.”

She didn’t look like she relished that idea, though Nelaros was familiar with what it would entail. The weddings back in Highever had always involved a high degree of fussing around the women: trousseaus, combing of hair, and a great deal of ribaldry about men and the wedding night, as far as he was aware.

It pained him a little that she should be so alone for her wedding morn. He imagined the hahren’s sister would have a coterie of women to help her, and it was all too easy to picture Valora getting caught up in the midst of them, but… well, Nelaros couldn’t help feeling for her. He’d grown rather attached to the little mouse since they left their home.

He wished her good luck with a smile, and obediently followed Soris back outside, into the warm, chaotic, crowded jumble of the alienage’s square.

Soris wasn’t that much shorter than him, Nelaros realised, though he walked as if he was perpetually stooping, perpetually ready to duck… or possibly fall over. And he _talked_. Oh, the talking. Since leaving Highever, he’d been used to Valora’s softly spoken words and long silences, but this boy apparently had no notion of how to be quiet. It was nerves, he assumed, once again amused at how the new couple would complement each other; his jabbering, her near-muteness, his clumsiness and her timid grace.

It made him wonder all the more intently about his own bride.

“…were really expecting more than just the two of you, I suppose,” Soris was saying. “Not that it’s— I mean, I don’t mean to be rude, but… oh, Maker, this isn’t coming out very well. Still, I guess it must have been a long journey. You were probably lucky you didn’t have to share the cart with so many people.”

“It was quiet enough,” Nelaros said; something he didn’t imagine his new life in Denerim was going to be. “Listen, uh, Soris… I admit, I’m curious. You’re my betrothed’s cousin, right?”

Soris nodded, his eyes wide and guileless. “Yep. My sister and I grew up with Meri. Her father’s been very good to us since our parents… well… y’know.”

He looked curiously at Nelaros, apparently needing further prodding in the way of dispensing information. Nelaros sighed inwardly.

“ _So_ … what’s she like, this cousin of yours? Really, I mean? I’d like to know more about her.”

Perhaps it didn’t really matter. The wedding would go ahead no matter what, and maybe it was foolish to dig for answers he might not like. Still, Nelaros couldn’t contain his impatience, especially when Soris was staring at him like a weak-eyed child.

“What, Merien? Oh… well, she’s…. You’ll like her,” he assured, grinning weakly as they picked their way over the duckboards and broken cobbles. “She’s very… sensible.”

“Sensible,” Nelaros echoed. “Ah. Right. Is she… looking forward to the wedding?”

Soris’ eyes widened fractionally at that word, like the panic of a man faced with a live snake. He wet his lips nervously. “Yes. Yes, I think so… I know she was very pleased to get it all settled, and, of course, she was happy not to be leaving the city. She always said she didn’t care _what_ match she got, so long as she didn’t have to leave Denerim. Uh… I mean— I didn’t mean that the way it sounds,” he added hurriedly, wincing apologetically. “Uncle’s been telling her all kinds of good things about you, and I’m sure she’s very excited.”

A breeze picked at the air, bringing with it a selection of faint smells from the marketplace to add spice and depth to the alienage’s prevailing odour of mud and dirt.

“I’m… eager to meet her,” Nelaros said carefully. “From the letters, she sounds—”

Soris let slip a short, awkward laugh, then mugged frantically. “What? No! She’s…. Well, yeah, I bet you are. Heh.” He grinned again, looking embarrassed, and scuffed at the cobbles with the toe of his boot.

Nelaros arched an eyebrow. “Is she pretty?”

Soris snorted, laughter bursting out of him like spring thunder. “ _Meri_? Uh… sure, yes. Fine, if you like a girl you can trust your friends around. Oh,” he added quickly, trying to catch the tail of the words, “I don’t mean— well, she’s not _that_ bad. I mean, she’s my cousin, so I don’t think I’ve ever looked at her like that, but….” He cleared his throat, reaching up to run a sheepish hand through that tangled thatch of red hair. “Well, she’s no great beauty, but she’s not hideous.”

_Not hideous. Right._

Nelaros sighed inwardly. This did not sound promising. He did his best to stay polite, and to not actually give in to the temptation to beat the truth out of the boy who would soon be his kin by marriage.

The summer breeze skittered along the uneven roofs of the squat houses with perfectly scrubbed doorsteps that lined the streets here, away from the square. It painted a very pretty picture of alienage life, to be sure; nicer than Highever, and the walls were tall and stout, standing between the community and the shems beyond.

It was probably going to be a nice place to live. People here seemed friendly, and they seemed to be a close-knit bunch, which boded well for making a life, but… in that moment, Nelaros felt profoundly homesick.

He missed his friends. He missed his old job, his family, and the fact he’d known the Highever alienage like the back of his hand. He thought of the coppices beyond the city walls that he’d never see again, the errands he would never run… and of his bride, who “wasn’t hideous”.

“She knows how to handle a blade, though,” Soris said thoughtfully. “So, you know, I guess that’s useful for something.”

Nelaros blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh… didn’t anyone tell you? Oh,” Soris said again, his mouth forming a circle of embarrassed realisation that opened and shut like a fish. “No… I suppose Uncle wouldn’t have. He probably didn’t want— oh. Oops. Uh…. Maybe you should forget I mentioned it.”

“Soris….” Nelaros glared at him, making the most of his greater height, greater confidence, and the fact he was an unknown quantity to the boy.

His soon-to-be-cousin flinched, as if he really did think he was going to have the information beaten out of him.

“I don’t know why he didn’t say anything! Her mother taught her, I think. Knives, daggers—that kind of thing. She can hold her own in a fight, anyway. One year, at Wintersend, when we were younger, I saw her hit a boy so hard she almost knocked his tooth out! Not that… that will probably have any bearing… on your marriage,” he added with a weak smile. “As long as you don’t annoy her. Which is hard to do, really… I mean, she has a temper when she gets going, sure, but she’s a good girl. Easy to get along with. Sweet-tempered, that’s the word. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Nelaros repeated flatly.

Well, this was spectacular. His bride was a placid doormat, except when she was a knife-wielding maniac who brawled with men on feast days. He wondered if she was a heavy drinker, and if _that_ was something else his new father-in-law had somehow forgotten to mention.

Marvellous. At this point, his future just couldn’t get any brighter.

Soris pointed shakily to a small house at the end of a row not far from the towering marketside gate, its front step scrubbed so clean it looked bleached.

“I’ll tell Uncle you’re here. He’ll be pleased. Um. Please don’t tell him I told you about the… y’know.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly and scampered off towards the house, leaving Nelaros to sigh wearily and raise his eyes to the heavens.


	4. Chapter 4

Cyrion Tabris seemed a pleasant enough man. Rather old, very traditional, and somewhat hidebound, in Nelaros’ opinion, but amiable enough. He greeted them cordially, his manner with Soris that of a quietly kind but mildly exasperated father… a better guardian than the boy could have reasonably expected to have, Nelaros thought.

With Nelaros himself, Cyrion was the soul of politeness. He shook his hand, inclined in a slight bow, and told him he was welcome to his new life.

“This is our little home,” he said, gesturing with one arm to the small but neat room behind him.

There wasn’t much of it. The place was smaller than the house Nelaros’ family had rented in Highever, though of course there had been more bodies to house there, and his brothers’ wages had enabled them to have the luxury of three rooms.

Here, a large stone hearth dominated the space, with a large table and a few wooden chairs in front of it. The table was pitted and clearly well used, though—like the front step and the door into the cottage—it had been scrubbed clean enough over enough years to bleach it. Cooking pots, dishes, and a few bits of cheap crockery stood neatly stacked on another small table, ladles hung overhead beside a few bunches of dry, twiggy looking herbs. Even the woodpile was neatly stacked, and the walls—while uneven and obviously faintly damp—looked as if they were whitewashed religiously every year. He was surprised to note a couple of shelves on the walls, ostentatiously displaying a handful of small wooden carvings and a few books, but recalled the pride with which Cyrion’s letters had stated his daughter could both read and figure tallies a little.

So… an educated bride. Nelaros looked around the room for traces of her, but found only neatness, the clutter of life tidied carefully away; presumably by someone who worked very hard at keeping it this clean. He supposed it could be worse. At least she’d always know where his boots were.

Towards the far end of the room, a small screen hung with cloth indicated the sleeping arrangements, and Nelaros did his best not to think about tonight, and the inevitable embarrassment of having the entire alienage process him and his bride back here for the… deed.

The slightly sad stiffness in Cyrion’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely comfortable with circumstances either, though of course it _was_ what would happen. It was a part of life. Of course, Nelaros supposed it didn’t make it any easier when that particular part of life was happening to one’s own child.

The man tried to make gentle conversation, though neither of them really had much to say to the other, and Nelaros was fairly convinced that the purpose of the entire exercise was for Cyrion to size him up. He could feel those grey-green eyes skimming carefully over every aspect of his appearance, and was sure Cyrion was forming opinions about him… particularly about his hair, which he imagined the older man would, judging by the elders back in Highever, find a cause for either derision or shock and pursed lips.

Boys were supposed to keep their hair short until they married. After their transition to adulthood, the cultivation of a braid—or something like the shoulder-length fall of grey hair Cyrion wore, with a small braid at each temple—was considered respectable. Why or how this custom originated, Nelaros had no idea but, like many of the other young men in Highever, rather than choose to be subservient to it, he’d made the tradition his own. He took pride in just how short his hair was cut, shaven close to his nape and feathered in carefully around his ears. Back in Highever, it had been quite the smart thing to do, and the girls certainly liked it, however much the old people tutted and mumbled about vanity.

He supposed it would be different now. Everything would change, and he wondered how well his new life would be suiting him by the time a pale golden braid hung down his back. 

He didn’t bring up what Soris had said about his betrothed’s knife-wielding. If they were going to be family, it seemed foolish to begin by breaking confidences, and it wasn’t as if it mattered now, anyway. There was no getting out of this.

Nelaros fixed a polite smile to his face as Cyrion went through the list of things that would have to be done, fussing over Soris’ arrangements for wedding clothes, and lists of people with whom he would have to speak.

The old man appeared to take it all in his stride… evidently the plans were all ready established, and their early arrival had caused neither problems nor offence, of which Nelaros was glad. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling slightly concerned. There was something in how neatly the preparations had been made that felt redolent of the well-washed kitchen table, bleached to paleness over the years.

He hoped his new life was not going to be so vigorously and relentlessly scrubbed clean, his own self wrung out and stretched across it like a washday shirt.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

The morning passed with a degree of awkwardness, as Nelaros and Valora found themselves shuttled between the hahren’s house and parts of the square, alternately being kept out of the way while preparations commenced, and introduced to members of the community. The wedding was evidently going to be talked about for some time; every family in the place seemed to have turned out for it, and most of them wanted to shake his hand. Quite a few of the alienage’s women looked Nelaros up and down and then suggested more than a handshake, but the impropriety was accompanied with a lot of laughter… the ribaldry the day demanded, he supposed. Still, he did enjoy the attention.

For part of the time, Valora had been whisked away into the centre of a large pack of women, headed by the hahren’s sister. When he met up with her again, Nelaros suspected she might have been crying, or at least stifling her tears. She looked flushed, as if the attention had been too much, and she seemed pleased to see him; glad of the familiar face, he guessed.

She had been dressed and made ready for the ceremony, her hair combed and fancifully braided—though still not really flattering her face—and she wore a long, demure dress in a light shade of green, with a high neck and full sleeves to show off the drape of the fabric. It looked well on her, he had to admit, lending her a little more shape to complement her quiet but natural grace. If only she could get past the mousy shyness, she’d be well on her way to becoming a woman.

“So?” he asked, in one brief moment of quiet in the hahren’s parlour. “Your groom. What do you think of him?”

“Oh!” Valora turned her head away, her eyes downcast, though there was a slight smile on her lips. “He seems… nice. Don’t you think?”

She glanced up quickly, and Nelaros saw how eager she was for approval, for validation of the possibility that Soris might be the thing she hoped for more than anything: a kind man. All thoughts of teasing her about her clumsy, inept, gawky betrothed withered away, the words turning to sand on his tongue, and Nelaros merely nodded.

“I’ve had the chance to speak with him a little. He seems a good sort. I think he’s impressed with you,” he added, hoping the lie might smooth the little mouse’s first hours of married life. “And the family look to be pretty close. I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”

Her cheeks were already turning pink at his fibs, and she looked shyly at him, even when decency already had her covering her mouth with her hand.

“Is he? Did he _say_ —? Oh! No, I don’t want to know….”

Nelaros chuckled gently to himself and shook his head, wondering if his bride would be so easily flustered.

It wasn’t long before the day took on an air of intense festivity, helped in no small part by the ale barrels that were cracked open. Someone gave him a flagon of cheap ale that smelled faintly of honey, clapped him on the back, and wished him luck, and Nelaros—as he had begun to feel was his permanent expression—smiled weakly in thanks.

Whatever else was true of Denerim and its alienage, the community seemed solid. They did indeed have an orphanage; something Valora hadn’t yet stopped talking about, her pink-rimmed eyes wide as she told him what she’d learned. Children taken in, given bed, board, and any instruction the visiting Chantry sisters were able to provide… and the sisters _did_ visit the alienage, what of that? There were motions towards charity here, and kindness, and all manner of things that had never happened in Highever, and yet Nelaros was sure his old home had never seemed a mean or unfeeling place.

He wondered if that was because it had been all he’d ever known. Maybe Valora felt differently. After all, her life would surely have been better if she’d been born here. He could see the thoughts of that written on her face: a city where an orphaned child could find care and acceptance, more than the begrudged specks of kindness from extended family. Did she resent the fact she’d missed out? He had no idea. Part of him wondered if the little mouse was capable of being truly angry about anything.

Outside, the sky was a brilliant blue, still glimmering with all the happy memories of Midsummer, and the celebrations that he’d known would be his last with his family. They had made the time special, and Nelaros treasured it. As he looked up at Denerim’s crowded skyline, pierced by towers and crenellations, he tried to tell himself there would be other Midsummers, and other good memories. Everything he’d experienced here so far should prove that, right?

It wasn’t long until Soris returned, bearing a bundle of clothes and with a gaggle of drunken boys in his wake, and Nelaros had to let himself be joshed and busied through the rigmarole of dressing for his wedding, along with the other prospective groom.

Valora blushed, giggled, and left them to it, casting a curious glance at Soris as she went.

Nelaros tried to keep a smile on his face as he donned his ivory shirt and dark green blouson, pretending that he couldn’t remember his mother and her cousins working on the thin rows of delicate stitching all spring. His calfskin boots had been a gift from his father, and the fine wool hose from his brothers. Every item of clothing had meaning to it, and he wished they could have seen him as he stood, wearing the full ensemble for the first time. It would have been considered bad luck to try it all on at home, but it felt odd to wear it here, among strangers, and to keep smiling politely through the boys’ catcalls and jeers over how handsome they said he looked.

There was much bantering over Nelaros’ blue eyes and blond hair, his height and his good legs, and how every man in the Denerim alienage was going to have to watch his wife… or, perhaps, how Nelaros would have to bar the door tonight, in case of drunken and frustrated wives clambering in to find him.

He laughed, brushing away the idiocy, and backing Soris up when a couple of the boys made play of the fact Merien Tabris had, all things considered, done better for herself than a girl like her had reason to expect.

“Hey!” Soris frowned. “That’s my cousin you’re talking about.”

“I d’n mean no disrespec’,” the chief offender—a thin young man with pale brown hair, whose name Nelaros thought might be Raonin—said, swaying very gently. “We all _know_ her, but… she’s not exactly a looker, Soris.”

“She doesn’t look like _your_ bride!” one of the other boys piped up, only to be quickly hushed. “What? I’m jus’ sayin’, she’s not got that overbite. Meri might look like a plough horse, but at leas’ she don’t look like a rat.”

Soris thumped the lad in the arm, playfully but none too gently. “All right! That’s enough out of everybody. A woman’s more than her beauty, and… they’re both… pretty,” he finished lamely, sounding deeply unconvinced.

Nelaros, perhaps because of the ale, or perhaps because of the occasion, had forgotten to rise gallantly to Valora’s defence, and felt momentarily bad about it, though he was still a little stuck on ‘plough horse’.

“Well, if you’re ready,” Soris said, straightening out the bottom of the truly awful parti-coloured doublet he was wearing, “I suppose I’d better go and find the bridesmaids. And the brides. I think Shianni was looking after them. I hope she didn’t get anybody drunk….”

And he scampered off ahead, looking pinch-faced and worried, as if he was perhaps aware how terribly his dreadful yellow-and-red wedding ensemble clashed with his hair.

Nelaros sighed, and stepped out slowly into the sunshine.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

There was some sort of commotion in the square. He was too far away to see how it started; the place was getting crowded, presses of people filling up the cobbles, and the noise level was rising steadily as the crowds got drunker and more excited. Somewhere, someone was scratching out a cheerful tune on a fiddle, and a handful of dancers were clapping time.

Nelaros squinted against the light, trying to see where Soris had gone. On the far side of the square, past the vhenadahl, a crowd had gathered. He heard something that sounded like the smash of pottery, followed by raised voices, and a sudden silence from the fiddle player.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he remarked, looking to the other boys.

For all their brashness before, they were suddenly remarkable by their silence, each of them looking studiously at the sky, the cobblestones, or something incomparably fascinating on a distant wall.

Nelaros rolled his eyes and looked at Raonin, who was the tipsiest of the group and therefore the slowest to hide his gaze. The boy’s pale blue eyes bugged desperately, and he shook his head.

“Wh…what?”

“I _said_ , that doesn’t sound good. Sounds like an argument brewing or something. Shouldn’t we—?”

The boy shook his head violently and pointed in the direction of the crowd. “No! Can’t you see ’em? They’re shems. We get no good from shems comin’ here. We should stay out of it.”

“But Soris is—”

“He’ll duck and he’ll run, like usual,” one of the others said, shaking his head—and still putting on a good show of being interested in the cobblestones. “Don’t worry about him.”

Nelaros frowned. So, Denerim _did_ know how to be like Highever, after all… although, in his experience, humans never bothered to come into the alienage, not even on days of merriment like this. They scorned the elves, mocked and derided the alienage, and their casual cruelty was well known, but they never polluted themselves with actually setting foot in an elven place. To do would have been to openly admit its existence; that elves _lived_ there, and existed as more than the servants of temporary shemlen whims.

He squared his shoulders, preparing to stride across the square and take on whatever band of ruffians had wandered this way from the docks, but—before he got halfway to the source of the commotion—Nelaros was almost knocked flying by a redheaded elven girl running past him. He took in little of her but a very pale, freckled face, a panicked expression, and a strong smell of ale.

There were other women present in the crowd; the bridesmaids, he gathered from their finely stitched dresses. Each of them seemed to have hoarded every scrap of silk, chintz, or fine lawn she could find, and they were a patchwork of colours and beautiful embroidery.

He saw Valora nearby, standing on the edge of the crowd with some of the womenfolk who’d attended her before, her hands clasped in the sleeves of her dress and her eyes wide with patent fear.

A couple of boys gathered in the direction of the market gate let out drunken shouts and, as Nelaros looked towards them, he saw the shems who’d caused the disturbance: one being carried away his fellows. It looked worryingly like he was unconscious.

“Is everybody else all right?”

Nelaros turned at the familiar voice, and saw Soris—pale as a full moon, and sounding rather shaky—glancing around the group, evidently trying to smooth over whatever in the Maker’s name had just happened. He looked terrified, though next to his unruly copper thatch and dreadfully gaudy wedding clothes, he could hardly help but seem clownish. His bright blue eyes sought Valora out, his gaze loaded with desperate questions, and Nelaros wondered if he wasn’t seeing the first stirrings of a love match between the unfortunate couple.

The demure little flower lowered her eyes, the perfect picture of feminine grace. “I think we’re just shaken,” she said, with surprising calm. “What was that about?”

Soris laughed nervously. “Oh, it… uh… looks like the arl’s son started drinking too early. Um, well, let’s not let this ruin the day….”

Nelaros’ chest tightened. Arl’s son? That was both unexpected and unfortunate, to say the absolute least. All right, Denerim was the capital, but was it truly so loaded with nobles that they floated up in every gutter? Highever’s gentlefolk barely soiled themselves with anything outside the castle, or perhaps the hunting lodges and country houses that were said to lie beyond the city. An arl’s son in an alienage was unthinkable… and what in the Maker’s name had been done to him?

The thoughts ran riot in Nelaros’ head as the semi-distant fiddle player resumed his song, but he was forced to put those ponderings aside as Soris turned to the girl beside him, taking her arm and making an awkward little bow as he cleared his throat and presented her to his mouse.

“Uh, Merien, this is Valora, my betrothed.”

Nelaros stood quite still. Ah. So, this was his bride. Valora was smiling prettily at her as they exchanged greetings, and he had a moment’s opportunity to see the girl from a few feet’s distance, that initial impression searing itself into his memory. She didn’t _look_ like a knife-wielding maniac, so that was probably positive.

She was fairly tall for an elven girl, of a height with the shorter kind of human, though he didn’t see all that much of the ‘plough horse’ in her build. She was reasonably shapely, if somewhat thin. She wore a skirt sewn with dark green silk panels, and a top piece cut low on her shoulders, the bodice and wristlets decorated with an intensely intricate embroidery that must have taken months. Her boots were square, practical things… a little muddy, though in general she was as neatly turned out as the house she kept.

Her hair was brown. Not deep chestnut or honeyed golden-brown, just… brown. It fell to just above her shoulders, and he was struggling to find anything else to observe about her appearance when she turned to him, her gaze meeting his for the first time.

She looked dumbstruck… and then nervous… and then embarrassed.

“Er. This must be Nelaros,” she said, then winced slightly, as if she’d just heard the obviousness of the statement.

One of the boys elbowed him in the back, shoving him forward. He could hear the sniggers behind him, but he didn’t care anymore. It was too late for that. Her voice was low and she seemed well spoken, which was, he supposed, something. He’d been desperate to avoid a shrieking fishwife. Even so, the girl who looked back at him was not all Nelaros had hoped for.

Merien certainly wasn’t exactly what he would have called pretty… in fact, she bordered on the unfortunately plain. Her neither-dark-nor-light-brown hair was straight, combed flat enough to look lank, and parted right down the middle with unflattering severity. A heavy fringe obscured most of her forehead, leaving thick dark brows visible over heavy-lidded, deep-set brown eyes. Her mouth was rather wide and her cheekbones were narrow and low, while her chin and jaw were both thick and square, leaving her whole face with a somewhat blunt, unfinished look, saved from mannishness only by the leanness of her cheeks.

And then there was the nose. It was… noticeable, there were no two ways about it. Thin at the bridge, descending in a tremendous cragged slope to a rounded tip, it dominated her face. It was clearly her father’s legacy: side-by-side, or, rather, nose-by-nose, Nelaros was certain those two organs would be indistinguishable. She didn’t have Cyrion’s colouring, though. As if the brown eyes and the brown hair were not brown enough, like Soris, her skin was heavily freckled, though not with his redhead’s delicate pigmentation. Her freckles were darker, liberally mottling her skin from face to hands, neck, and arms… Maker’s breath, they were probably everywhere! Nelaros’ thoughts skipped inadvertently to the wedding night to come, and he realised glumly that he would find out soon enough.

Still, she _did_ have a passable figure… apart from being almost entirely flat-chested. He could have wished for a better bosom, he thought. Or any bosom at all, come to that. If it hadn’t been for the slenderness of her waist and the saving grace of some delicacy in her shoulders, her form would have been boyish. As it was, she was the skinny side of shapely—the kind of all-over thinness that a lot of alienage girls had: an elven sort of narrowness, born of hunger and hard work, instead of a naturally sylph-like grace. Her ears weren’t bad, he supposed. A little large and heavy, but they suited her face.

He remembered his manners, despite the feeling of disappointment that sent his stomach sinking, and forced himself to smile.

This was the woman with whom he would be spending his married life, Nelaros told himself. He might as well try damned hard to make a good impression; it would make things easier in the long run.

“A pleasure.” He let his smile broaden into his most charming grin. “Soris has said much of you. Some of it was even positive.”

Merien raised an eyebrow, then turned to glare at her cousin.

Soris shrugged guiltily. “What? Well, you know…. I just wanted to give him a sporting chance to run. Anyway, I, uh… I’m sure the two of you have much to discuss. Valora, shall we…?”

He held out an arm, ushering his betrothed away, and allowing Nelaros and his bride-to-be the arguable comfort of a few moments’ introduction. Such a thing was traditional, of course, though Nelaros wondered at the uselessness of it, especially when, once the wedding was over, they would have more than enough time to make uncomfortable small talk together. Maker, that wasn’t _all_ the awkwardness they would have to share, either.

He smiled weakly, and tried not to dwell upon what would come later. Not that he was necessarily averse to sampling the delights of the marriage bed, but… well, Merien was hardly a devastating beauty, and he couldn’t quite shake the thought of her with a knife in her hand. Was that what the business with those humans had been about? Nelaros was still curious about that little interlude… Merien seemed curiously calm about it, and he wasn’t sure he trusted a girl who failed to be afraid of shems.

He realised he was still smiling fixedly at her, and that he couldn’t think of a Void-taken thing to say.

She smiled back at him. She had a very self-conscious kind of smile, he noted: lips pressed together, as if she was either trying too hard to seem demure, or stifling her real amusement… or maybe she was just hiding bad teeth.

After a moment, their shared smile bubbled into uncomfortable, tongue-tied laughter. It felt forced, and Nelaros’ heart beat quickly, as if urging him to find some escape.

Strangely, it was Merien who broke the silence.

“So, um… how was the trip from Highever?” she asked.

She had a pleasant enough voice, though now he heard a few flat Denerim vowels in it. He groped for a reply, managing to make his mouth move and even marshalling words that didn’t sound too awkward.

“Uneventful, thankfully. The trade caravan we accompanied had little of value; I think that kept the bandits away.”

“Ah.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that’s… that was good. Um. I, uh, I hear you’re a talented smith. D’you think you’ll want to look for work at one of the forges in the city?”

He blinked. That… that was actually an intelligent question. He looked into her dark eyes, and thought about all the things that had been in those letters, and all the things the marriage broker had said.

It was probably true: a good wife, who could keep a home and be the helpmeet her husband needed, was worth more than any pretty girl. Nelaros wondered if the person he saw looking back at him in that moment was such a woman, or if he was being blinded by his own foolish hopes.

He smiled again; smaller this time, but more genuinely. “I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m… well, I’m happy to do whatever I need to make a good life here. With you.”

Merien’s freckled cheeks turned slightly pink, and she lowered her gaze, though even in that gesture she somehow didn’t seem as demure as Valora.

On impulse, Nelaros reached into the pocket of his tunic and took out the small scrap of cloth that held the gilded band he’d made: that small, simple, yet precious masterwork of his that had taken so much time and effort. Unfolding the cloth carefully, Nelaros revealed the narrow golden ring, polished to a low sheen. He held it out to show her.

“I made this for you,” he said shyly. “I hope it fits.”

She smiled, and he thought she looked truly pleased. “It’s… beautiful.”

She was probably overwhelmed. Nelaros pocketed the ring again, and wished he could think of something else to say. Merien cleared her throat.

“It, er, must be difficult… starting over in a new place. How have you found Denerim so far?”

Nelaros arched his brows. She asked a lot of questions, though he supposed that was probably preferable to a girl who stood in mute and awkward silence, waiting for him to do all the work.

“It _was_ hard to leave Highever, although Denerim itself seems friendlier. Perhaps because it’s so large that humans take less notice of us. I don’t know.”

He hoped she might take the hint and tell him something of the altercation with those shems—the Void-taken _arl’s_ son, of all people!—but she just looked a little consternated, her gaze sliding to the side as she chewed at the inside of her lip.

Then, she blinked and looked back at him again, evidently trying to steer the conversation away from that path… albeit with the subtlety of a brick wrapped in a wet cloth.

“Nervous?” Merien blurted.

Nelaros looked at her for a moment, this square-jawed, flat-chested, skinny girl who was to be his wife.

“I thought I’d stay calm,” he said. “But finally seeing you has made me…. Well, let’s just say I’m not calm.”

He smiled tightly, trying hard to ignore his hammering pulse. Merien looked uncertain, and then she lowered her gaze, her thin fingers worrying at a loose thread of embroidery on her wristlet. He watched the way her lashes shaded her cheeks, and tried to imagine her smiling properly… laughing, even. She looked like the kind of person who _did_ laugh and smile, and that made him feel strangely as if he was the one who was lacking.

Maker… did she not find him handsome? Was he so dreadful to behold?

Nelaros had not expected to be assailed by those worries, and yet he was. He found that he wanted her to like him. Perhaps not to fawn over him with flirtations the way some other girls did—after all, what a man wanted in a wife was different to what he sought in a good time—but he wanted them to be good together. He wanted them to be happy, and he wanted to do right by her, and by all the decisions that the elders had made on their behalves.

This was supposed to be a good match. It _could_ be a good match, he felt sure. Couldn’t it?

Merien still had a strangely stiff kind of air about her, he thought; the standoffishness of a girl too polite to admit to discomfort. He found he wanted to see her full of warmth and happiness, instead of this awkward kind of obligation. Maybe he’d frightened her. He wasn’t sure. She didn’t seem like most of the girls he’d known in Highever, although that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“How about you?” Nelaros asked gently. “Nervous?”

She looked up at him, looked deeply into his eyes—and that was something few girls did, in his experience—and he thought for a moment that she looked awfully sad, though it wasn’t the sadness he’d seen in Cyrion. That was the regret of a father losing his child to maturity. This was something different, something full of worry and nervousness for the future, and Nelaros sensed she was truly afraid. 

“I….” she began, faltering into silence. Then, she smiled, and it seemed warmer than before. “I was until I saw you,” she said quietly, and Nelaros’ heart swelled a little.

He smiled, proud to think that he’d helped her feel braver, and determined to follow through and forge the best foundation for their new life that he possibly could.

“I’ll spend every waking moment learning to make you happy,” he promised, his voice low and earnest.

She blushed then—a real, deep flood of colour in her cheeks—and looked at her feet. He smiled to himself. Maker, if this was a sign of things to come, she was going to be easy to please. A few sweet words and she’d be blown away… and why not? A girl like her had probably never had the time of day from a man before.

Nelaros supposed he rather liked the thought of it. He was the prince to her captive swan—or perhaps duckling, in this case—and he _would_ make her happy. In turn, she would please him, and everyone would be settled.

They were well-matched after all, and they could certainly be happy. He felt more convinced of that now.

All that remained was to make the last preparations, and take their places upon the wooden dais, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

For the first time since leaving Highever, Nelaros actually felt more optimistic about that. 


	5. Chapter 5

Finally, the ceremony itself began to get underway. Given how much the crowd had been enjoying themselves, it wasn’t surprising that it had to open with the hahren mounting the wooden dais and clearing his throat several times before stomping a foot on the platform and calling for quiet.

Nelaros joined Valora and the assembled bridesmaids on the dais, where his new father-in-law also stood, his hands clasped behind his back and his face a tight mask of contained apprehension. Nelaros wanted to feel sympathy for the old man, but his own nervousness was already getting the better of him. His palms were sweating, and he rubbed them against the hem of his blouson, trying not to draw attention to the movement.

Valora looked up briefly, enough to give him a small smile before returning her gaze to the boards in front of her. It was hard to tell whether meeting her betrothed had helped soothe her nerves any, but she seemed resigned to her fate. They all had to be, he supposed, peering across the crowd for any sign of Soris and Merien.

Another human had entered the alienage—a dark-skinned man in pale armour. He stood apart from the bustle of the wedding, though he was watching the proceedings with interest. Fear immediately clutched Nelaros’ heart, reflexive and ruthless. More shems? He would have thought that the height of the walls and the gates might have given them a hint and encouraged them to stay out. Still, this didn’t look like another drunken rabble-rouser; he was older than the arl’s son and his friends, and his manner seemed oddly respectful. It wasn’t something Nelaros was used to seeing in his kind, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“For the Maker’s sake, children!” Valendrian hissed, beckoning Merien and Soris to the dais as they jogged awkwardly up the steps. “Take your places!”

The hahren rolled his eyes, and Nelaros saw his bride shoot a guilty, apologetic smile towards her father.

He couldn’t exactly say she was pretty when she smiled—there was no power in the world, save perhaps for that wielded by mages, that could give her the looks traditionally prized among elven women—but it certainly lit up her face. In that fleeting moment, as he looked across the platform at her, she seemed bright and alive, full of mischief and kindness. Nelaros wanted to believe, wanted to _hope_ , that she’d look at him like that one day.

He wouldn’t mind it in the least. 

There was a ripple of applause as the two cousins ascended the steps—and not a little bit of drunken cheering. Nelaros tried to smile as his bride took her place beside him, though he was afraid it came off as a grimace.

Valora glanced up timidly, simpering at her betrothed… who looked pale and waxy, and not a little nauseous.

“There you are, Soris! I was afraid you’d run off.”

She smiled shyly. Soris swallowed, his throat bobbing as he exchanged looks with his cousin.

“No,” he assured the little mouse. “I’m here, and with Nelaros’ blushing bride in tow.”

Merien glared at him, then glanced uncertainly at Nelaros, as if she was worried what he thought of her. It was a bit late for that, though he found it rather sweet that she still seemed to be concerned with making a good impression. There was real anxiety in those dark eyes of hers… hesitancy and lingering worry.

He smiled gently at her. “You look… radiant,” he murmured, because it was the nicest thing he could think of to say that wasn’t entirely a falsehood.

She gave him a crumpled, embarrassed sort of smile, and averted her eyes quickly, looking down at the wooden boards.

“It looks like everyone’s ready,” Soris observed.

Merien glanced up at him, raising her dark brows. “Good luck.”

He gave her a sickly grin. “You too, cousin. Who knows? Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

He had the grace to look embarrassed as the words left his mouth, and he shot a guilty grin at Valora, who just shook her head wearily. Nelaros tried not to laugh, sure that it was hysteria more than humour prompting him to it.

Valendrian had mounted the platform, and now he stepped forward, his hands raised as he called for quiet from the gathered sea of onlookers. Nelaros saw Merien look over to where her father was standing, and the affection in Cyrion’s face humbled him. He’d been missing his family ever since he left Highever, but in that moment he saw the gulf between the tenderness he’d shared with his own parents, and the love his new wife had for her father.

He supposed it was what came from a widower having but one child to raise, Soris and his sister notwithstanding. _She_ stood with the other bridesmaids, and Nelaros was mildly alarmed to learn that, not only was Shianni the girl from earlier—the one who’d been involved in the altercation with the arl’s son—but that she had a strong smell of ale on her.

He wondered, as the swell of nervousness folded him in its tide, whether the coming years would see him graced with a sprawling pack of freckled children—the red hair probably ran strongly in the family, too—and he really hoped that the Tabris clan didn’t turn out to be as rowdy as this every day.

Nelaros looked to his bride and, seeing the look on her face as she tried to hide her anxiety and do right by her father, he felt moved to reach out his hand and fold her thin fingers into his.

Merien almost flinched. He smiled at her, and she looked a little flushed… but she squeezed his hand, and there was real warmth in her eyes as she did it. Nelaros’ smile deepened. Maybe it would be all right after all.

“Friends and family,” the hahren began, “today we celebrate not only this joining, but also our bonds of kin and kind. We are a free people, but that was not always so. Andraste, the Maker’s prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery. As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other.”

Valendrian was a good speaker, better than Hahren Sarethia. His voice had depth and emotion, and he used it to say positive things… or, at least, he was doing so right now. Nelaros let himself feel buoyed up by the words, and hoped that—if she was in fact watching over them in the Maker’s stead—Andraste would see fit to bless the day.

There was a general rumble of approval from the crowd, and Mother Boann, the Chantry priest whom Nelaros could still not get used to seeing in the alienage, came forward to join the hahren. He bowed to her, a gesture she received with grace and respect.

“Thank you, Valendrian. Now, let us begin. In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light, I—”

She stopped abruptly, her gaze fixed on some disruption in the crowd. Nelaros’ brow tightened; there was fear in the human woman’s face. He saw it as plain as daylight, and he immediately turned his head to find its source.

“My lord?” Mother Boann’s voice was clear, but she couldn’t hide the concern in her tone. “This is… an unexpected surprise.”

The arl’s son had returned, and this time he had more than just his sneering friends in tow. A pack of city guards in splintmail armour accompanied them, and the crowd of elven revellers parted before them like dry leaves blown ahead of the wind.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mother,” the nobleman said, his words dripping with scorn as he barged up to the foot of the platform, “but I’m having a party… and we’re dreadfully short of female guests.”

The priest’s outrage was palpable as the lordlings mounted the dais. Nelaros’ pulse pounded, his instincts screaming at him to either cringe or flee. Everything he’d known in Highever—everything he’d ever learned, ever lived with, ever understood as a fact of elven life—told him to get away, but there was nowhere he could go, and nothing he could do that would not attract attention.

The arl’s son prowled lazily towards the wedding party as his friends took up position beside Valendrian and Cyrion… two old, vulnerable men.

“My lord,” Mother Boann protested, “this is a _wedding_!”

She was a brave woman, Nelaros thought, watching the shoulders of her red-and-gold Chantry robe shake ever so slightly as she faced down the supercilious noble. Before today, he would never have thought a human would defend elves this way… unless it was interference with her ritual that resented, more than the sanctity of a marriage.

He didn’t focus too deeply on the nuances of human behaviour, however. Not when the arl’s son was giving the priest such a look of potent, vile rage.

“Ha!” The young noble loosed a burst of obnoxious laughter. “If you want to dress up your pets and play tea parties, that’s your business. But don’t pretend this is a proper wedding.”

The silence that spilled out around those words was taut and sharp, stretched thin enough to shatter with the slightest blow. The uneasiness among the elves hung in the air, a thick and ugly tension. To Nelaros’ mind, the only question was whether the fear of repercussion—and all those well-armed shems—would stop the drunks in the crowd doing anything stupid.

“Lord Vaughan…!”

The priest quivered with righteous indignation, but the arl’s son merely moved past her, as if he knew jut how untouchable he was.

“Now,” Vaughan said, his rich, lazy drawl echoing off the stonework and making Nelaros’ skin crawl, “we’re here for a good time, aren’t we, boys?”

“That’s right,” said one of the other shems, sneering unpleasantly at the bridesmaids. “Just a good time with the ladies, that’s all.”

Their nasty, greasy laughter pooled in the unnatural silence. Nelaros’ breathing grew shallow and rapid, and he took hold of Merien’s hand once more, squeezing firmly before he angled his body in front of hers, trying to shield her somehow from the men. Perhaps it was a foolish impulse, but this was not like the casual cruelty he knew from home. There was something ugly and calculated here… and he was no longer a child. He had a duty to his wife, and the thought of these shem bastards laying a finger on her—or on Valora, or any of these girls—made him feel sick.

Nelaros glanced at Soris. His face was drained of all colour, and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. None of them were making eye contact: not with each other, not with Nelaros, and certainly not with the humans. He was familiar enough with the reactions. If you couldn’t run, you stopped, stood still, and you took it in silence. Anything else just made it worse.

Nelaros would have expected nothing else, but he feared that this was going to be something worse than the kind of abuse that could be silently endured. No shem lordling brought a detachment of guards with him just to throw around a few insults.

Now, Vaughan strutted across the dais, his cold green eyes running over the still, silent bodies of the women, his mouth set into an ugly smirk.

“Let’s take those two.” He nodded at two of the bridesmaids, and waved one hand nonchalantly in Valora’s direction. “The one in the tight dress… and where’s the bitch that bottled me?”

Nelaros’ chest tightened, the breath stilling in his throat. Take them? What in the Maker’s name was this?

The other human moved from standing guard over the hahren, and grabbed Shianni by the arm. “Over here, Lord Vaughan!”

She squirmed, kicking out at the man’s legs. “Let me go, you stuffed-shirt son-of-a—”

All she earned for her trouble was a slap, and Vaughan chuckled.

“Oh, I’ll enjoy taming her….”

Nelaros’ stomach knotted, and a flush of panic washed through him as he felt Merien begin to move. She started to push past him, moving instinctively towards her cousin, and he didn’t react quickly enough to pull her back.

Lord Vaughan raised his brows, turning that horrible expression onto her, and every fibre of Nelaros’ body revolted at it. He was surprised at how protective of her he felt… and surprised at how quick she was to move to the defence of the other girl. 

The shem’s lip curled. “And see the pretty bride…!”

He began to head for Merien. Nelaros tightened his grip on her hand, moving closer to her.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t let them take you.”

He’d meant to protect her, to be brave for her… but she gave him a startled, wide-eyed look, as if she thought he was a fool.

“No,” she said firmly, pulling her hand from his grasp. “Just get out of here. Run!”

Nelaros bridled. He wasn’t used to girls his own age telling him what to do.

Their gazes locked and, for the first time, he saw the iron in her face. Ah, so _there_ was the girl who’d learned how to use a blade. He wondered if she had one hidden away under her wedding dress. He hoped not; violence might be what these shemlen were angling for, but starting anything wouldn’t make matters any better. Still… it wasn’t as if there was any way it could end well. That much was already dangerously clear.

He shook his head. He wasn’t going to leave her.

The look in Merien’s eyes deepened slightly; was that respect he saw? Gratitude? Nelaros didn’t know, but he felt himself warm to her… this brave, stubborn girl, who didn’t flinch or cower when the arl’s son drew closer, looming over her, using his unwelcome closeness as a weapon.

She turned her head, meeting his gaze—glaring right back at him, the way no other elf on the dais had done—determination and revulsion etched into her face in equal measure.

Nelaros was too busy being afraid for her to let many other thoughts crowd his head, but in that moment he admired her more than any other girl he’d known.

“Ah, yes,” Vaughan sneered, reaching out a hand as if—in some horrible parody of affection—to touch her hair. “Such a well-formed little thing….”

Rage boiled in Nelaros’ veins.

“You villains!” he snapped, pressing forwards to keep the shem away, though everything he knew about their kind told him it was useless.

Vaughan laughed softly. There was no mirth in it.

“Oh, that’s quite enough. I’m sure we all want to avoid any further, um, unpleasantness?”

He leaned in close, his breath grazing Merien’s face and making her wince. He kept his voice low, but the alienage was quiet enough for the words to roll out over the crowd… and not one of them did anything to help. One of the bridesmaids had begun to cry, the sound of her shivering, fearful sobs filtering through the silence.

Nelaros hardly dared to breathe. He looked at the girls the shems were still holding, and he saw with trepidation the anger that burned in Merien’s face.

“You have no right!” she said, spitting the words at the arl’s son as if she wished she could cut him with them. “Let them go, you bastard!”

Nelaros’ heart seemed cased in ice, fear shrouding the warmth he suddenly felt for his brave, furious bride.

Vaughan gave a shallow, contemptuous laugh.

“Ha! Look, this one has spirit! Oh, but we’re going to have some fun….”

He rocked back on his heels, still smirking at her. The dark-haired human who had been roughing up the bridesmaids stepped forward and, before either Merien or Nelaros had seen it coming, he’d struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

She fell, crumpling to the platform like a paper doll, and Nelaros lunged forwards, too late to protect her, cursing his uselessness.

“You bastards! You have no right to do this!”

The dark-haired shem grabbed his shirtfront, holding him back roughly as Vaughan smirked.

“You know, every time a knife-ear says that, it makes me smile.” His lips curled, baring his teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll return whatever’s left in time for the honeymoon.”

Nelaros struggled in the shem’s grip—something he’d never thought he’d do, something that every lesson he’d ever learned had told him was futile and stupid. He couldn’t help it. He was blind to everything but the outrage and maddening fury roaring in his blood.

None of the elves acted. Their hahren, their elders… everyone was still, silent, staring at the damn ground. Only Merien and her fiery-haired cousin had dared say a word against them, and this was what happened. Nelaros wanted to tear the very boards up from under his feet, to strike out, to gouge the eyes out of Lord Vaughan’s cold, predatory face.

“Back to the palace, boys!” the arl’s son said, as one of his friends’ fists connected with the side of Nelaros’ head, and the world smeared into a blur of colours.

The last thing he saw as he fell was his bride being lifted over a guard’s shoulder and taken away with the other girls… as the alienage watched in silence.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

“Are you all right?” Soris asked, as Nelaros lay sprawled on the platform, tasting blood. “You took a pretty good headshot there.”

He took hold of Nelaros’ blouson and tried to help pull him up, but Nelaros pushed his hand away as the world pitched and dived around him. He squeezed his eyes shut until the dizziness passed.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, clutching his temple as he began to struggle to his feet. “What… what happened?”

“They took them,” Soris moaned. “The women… they took them to the palace. Shianni, and Valora, and Merien. The bridesmaids, too. The elder’s talking to Duncan, that Grey Warden. Everyone’s getting upset.”

Nelaros cracked one eye open. The boy was pale as linen, and he looked terrified. The alienage still had that horrible quiet to it, though now he could hear the discontented mutterings of the crowd. Everything seemed muffled, not just from the swimming of his head, but as if the people themselves had yet to fully react to what had happened. A few voices were being raised… he had no doubt more would follow. The atmosphere had turned bitter.

“Of course they’re upset!” he said, squinting muzzily at Soris. “I can’t believe this is happening! Nothing like this ever happened in— Wait… what Grey Warden?”

“Over there.” Soris pointed down into the crowd, where the human with the bright armour stood near the hahren, both men frowning and speaking quietly at the edge of the crowd. “Meri and I saw him earlier. He’s in town looking for recruits or something, and it seems he knows the elder.”

Nelaros’ brow tightened. Much good _that_ would do them, never mind what it said about Denerim. Capital city? Capital of madness, more like. His heart clenched as he tried not to think about the girls; his bride and poor, terrified Valora… this would never have happened back home.

Of course there were humans who tried to take what they thought they were due, and assaults on women were not uncommon. Highever’s prevailing attitude was one of scorn towards elves, though that didn’t mean the shems didn’t still want to use them. It had never been like this, though. The audacity of that bastard! The guards’ complicity wasn’t surprising… they were city guards, and the arl’s family owned the city, but that Vaughan could just walk in here and believe he could treat them this way— Nelaros had never felt such a seething fire of anger and hate burn in him, and it _was_ hate.

He’d been raised to avoid that word. To say you hated shems was to polarise yourself from your people. Yes, everyone hated what they did, the things they said… but those things were the things that had always been there. They were the markers of the way life _was._ To say you hated the shems themselves was to admit you were prepared to fight, and that was just begging for a knife in the belly.

However, after what had happened today, the word tasted sweeter than it ever had before. Nelaros was almost surprised at the anger in himself; the rage of so many pent-up, choked-back years.

He let Soris help him down off the platform—they both seemed so out of place there now, in their fine clothes, standing against the drab wisps of flower and coloured cloth, the trappings of celebration that had suddenly turned so dull.

Valendrian was holding up his hands as he addressed the uneasy crowd, pleading for calm and quiet. “Everyone, please…. Please, all of you, listen. I know you are upset, and with good reason… but there is nothing we can do right now.”

Cries of disbelief and derision from many of the elves were met with shouts of support from others. One woman—thin, with black hair and a wide brow, pale amber eyes narrowed—jabbed an accusatory finger at a man who’d called out against the hahren.

“No, he’s right! You hold your tongue! Running after them will just make matters worse.”

“So we do nothing?” the man demanded. “They took my sister!”

Nelaros moved forwards, trying to attract Valendrian’s attention. There was a look of intense weariness in the old man’s eyes.

“Elder, where are the women? What happened?”

The hahren shook his head, reaching out to take Nelaros’ arm and draw him aside, away from the argument brewing in the crowd.

“They were taken to the arl’s palace, I believe. Normally, I would counsel patience—and I do believe we can only risk trouble by acting. Unfortunately,” Valendrian added, lowering his voice, “stories about the arl’s son and his appetites are… most disturbing.”

Nelaros frowned. “What kind of stories?”

Valendrian’s mouth twisted uneasily; he was clearly unwilling to speak, already fearing he’d said too much. He shook his head, but Nelaros grabbed his sleeve, bunching the fabric in his fist. It was a disrespectful action towards an elder—something he’d never ordinarily have dared to do.

In the crowd, the first punch was thrown. Shouts of anger and derision echoed across the square as a couple of men struggled with each other. Some women wept, others yelled, and one old man who sounded close to tears—the father of one of the bridesmaids—kept wringing his hands and moaning in a high, faint wail that nothing could be done and they should “hope for the best”. Shortly after that, he began to pray.

“Elder,” Nelaros prompted. “Please.”

Valendrian let out a terse sigh. The human—the Grey Warden—stood nearby, in the lee of one of the houses, clearly trying to listen in without making his presence any more obvious than it already was. Cyrion stood at the hahren’s shoulder, and the look on his face bore its way into Nelaros’ heart. There was anger there, and disbelief, mixed with a kind of hard blankness that, at first, he didn’t understand. It was as if this horror was almost familiar to the man, and Nelaros didn’t know how he could seem so calm.

“Last year,” Valendrian said quietly, “the blacksmith’s daughter worked as a chambermaid in the arl’s palace. Local children found her washed up under the docks. She’d been… well… Vaughan had had his way with her.”

“That’s right,” chipped in a grey-haired woman whom Nelaros had seen speaking with his bride earlier. He didn’t know if she was related, but anger burned in her face nonetheless; she certainly had none of the willingness he knew from Highever to leave others to their own problems. “The servants all said that Vaughan had his men bring her to his chambers—”

A man Nelaros assumed was the woman’s husband leaned in beside her, finishing the gruesome tale. “—and then when he was done with the girl, she was killed and disposed of. The garrison said she died later, but we all knew better.”

He spat on the cobblestones, scowling darkly. A few other elves who had moved into the conversation took up the cry, and the story of the blacksmith’s daughter seemed to be suddenly remembered. At once, the entire alienage started to ring with tales of outrage, the anger fuelled by drink, emotion, and gossip.

“Don’t be fools!” the black-haired woman shouted. “Be quiet, or you’re all going to bring another purge on us—you see if you don’t!”

Valendrian winced. The atmosphere was deteriorating quickly, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to keep a lid on it for long. He shook his head again, seeming resigned this time.

“Vaughan has never been so bold before, but with Arl Urien away, who knows what he thinks he can get away with? I… don’t see we have much choice.”

“No!” Nelaros recoiled, appalled. “We can’t just leave them there! We must… we must do _something_ , surely? Can’t we, I don’t know, go after them?”

Soris—still looking such a fool in his gaudy wedding clothes, so at odds with his pallid, terrified face—shook his head fervently. “I know how you feel, but what are we supposed to do? We’re talking about the arl’s _palace_. Even with Arl Urien and his knights gone, it’ll still be guarded. How would we even get in? And it’s not like that bastard will just let them go if we ask nicely….”

“Then we won’t ask,” Nelaros said, drawing himself up. He knew the words coming out of his mouth were madness, but all he could see was Valora’s frightened face, and his bride falling to the floor under a human’s fat fist. “Someone has to do something—or are you all such cowards?”

He raised his voice, much to Valendrian’s displeasure, and the words had their desired effect. The elves in the crowd stopped scuffling with each other, and a more violent argument broke out over whether any kind of rescue attempt should be considered.

“Is it worth it?” one young man asked, fear written broadly on his face. “If we do anything, the guards will come. They’ll take it out on us. Is it worth more of us suffering? He might not hurt them, and—”

“You wouldn’t say that if it was _your_ sister!” shouted another boy, while an older woman weighed in, shaking her head.

“No, he’s right! It’s like Elva said: if we do anything, it’ll be another purge. Who here didn’t lose family in the last one? We don’t want to risk that again!”

“That’s what I say!” the first elf agreed, to a chorus of jeers and derision. “What? I’m just saying, they’re not the first girls to catch a shem’s eye. I know it’s bad, but—”

Nelaros stared at the man in disgust, unable to believe there could be people so willing to embrace their blindness, so eager to clutch their cowardice close to them. And yet, for every elf that shouted him down in anger and outrage, there was another who took his side. Nelaros hated it, yet he knew the logic all too well. Why should these people risk their safety—risk the safety of their entire alienage—for the lives of a handful of women?

His stomach turned at the thought of what those girls might suffer. Not just indignity and violence, but the twisted pleasure of a shem who enjoyed their pain. He couldn’t bear to think of it, to think of Valora and the others at the mercy of that monster.

Just as the argument seemed locked in irreparable stalemate, one young man in a grey tunic bowed nervously before Valendrian, hopping anxiously in an attempt to catch his attention.

“Elder? Elder… may I offer a suggestion?”

Valendrian looked testily at the elf. “What is it?”

“I work inside the palace. I could sneak one, perhaps two others in through the servants’ entrance. Nobody would notice an extra couple of elves looking around.”

His words almost went unheard in the din. Nelaros couldn’t tell from Valendrian’s face whether the hahren thought the idea was worthwhile, or if he just wished the boy hadn’t spoken at all.

He took the opportunity to push forwards, locking gazes with the elder, demanding to be heard. He wasn’t _from_ here, he wasn’t a son of Denerim… if they wanted to resent him because he wouldn’t let this outrage pass, then let them.

“I will go! Elder… elder, I will go. They took my bride—I want a chance to get her back.” A ragged chorus of voices shouted him down, called him foolhardy and rash, but Nelaros repeated himself. “Let me try! Let me at least try… don’t make me stand here like a coward! Come on! Who among you would rather stand up to these bastards than stay behind, wringing your hands and saying ‘nothing can be done’ while you let that fiend rape and murder your women? Is not one of you a man?”

“All right!” Valendrian glared at him. “You’ve said your piece, child. That’s enough!”

The air in the alienage positively boiled, though Nelaros was too angry to see more of the crowd than a smeared mix of faces, their expressions contorted by rage and fear. Some of the women called out in support, while others tried to hold back their men. The boys who’d been hitting the ale hard since the morning were full of bravado, shouting about shemlen getting what they deserved. Valendrian scowled at Nelaros.

“You’re not helping the situation,” he muttered.

“He’s right, Elder,” Soris piped up, much to Nelaros’ shock. “Someone has to do something and… and if Nelaros is going, I’m going too.”

That was an unexpected contribution. Nelaros looked at the boy in surprise, but opted for nodding gratefully rather than questioning how he’d come by this sudden burst of bravery.

Valendrian sighed. “Do you know what you’re saying? If the women are there, it’ll mean a fight.”

“Yes.” Cyrion nodded, his face solemn. “I hate to say it, but that’s true.”

He hadn’t spoken out in the argument. Nelaros looked quizzically at his almost-father-in-law. “Do you believe someone should go after them?”

The old man still had that strange blankness in his expression. Nelaros couldn’t tell if it was shock or some old, worn-in kind of fear. Cyrion shook his head, his eyes half-hooded, though his words were firm and even, pitched low as snake strikes.

“Of course. If I could take up a blade, do you think I’d still be standing here?” His jaw clenched, his lips twisting, and Nelaros saw how very, very like him his daughter was. Cyrion let out a breath. “Ah… I saw the purge, child. I saw women with babies at their breasts pushed back inside burning houses, while the humans laughed. My wife was cut down by a guard in the marketplace, for speaking out of turn. I know what it would bring, if we tried…. But….”

He stopped, the words suddenly growing thick as his emotions broke through the barrier of his normal reserve. The hahren put a hand on his arm, and Cyrion lowered his head.

“My little girl,” he murmured, staring down at the cobblestones. “My girls….”

Soris wrinkled his nose. “Well… I bet Merien’s not giving them an easy time. That is, if they haven’t— I mean—”

He stopped abruptly, and the old man’s face shifted between fear, sadness, and anger, a roiling of emotions passing across his normally staid features. Cyrion caught Nelaros’ eye and looked momentarily guilty, as if remembering his etiquette would keep him from weeping.

“She—”

“Knows how to handle a blade,” Nelaros finished dryly. “I heard.”

Cyrion gave him a weak, apologetic smile. “You understand? We, uh… we didn’t want to seem like… troublemakers.”

His voice grew thin as he spoke, the last word a ghost on his breath, and his grey-green eyes caught a look of utter, desolate heartbreak. The hahren patted his arm.

“All right. Fine. Then it is settled. You boys know what it is you seek to do?”

“Yes, Elder,” Nelaros said, straightening his back. In truth, he wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea… but it was better than leaving the fate of those poor girls in the lap of the Maker.

He looked at Soris, who was positively ashen-faced and staring at his feet. The boy nodded, not looking up.

“We know what we have to do,” Nelaros said, speaking for them both—because if he didn’t, who would?

The Grey Warden moved forward then, earning himself stares and spiteful whispers from the assembled elves, though not one of them actually dared to say anything outright. Nelaros wasn’t surprised; the human carried a sword and bow on his back, and a dagger at his hip, and he moved with a carefully controlled grace that said he knew just how to use them all.

“If this is what you intend,” he said, inclining his head respectfully towards the hahren—not a thing Nelaros had ever seen a shem do—before he turned to bridegrooms, “then you will need weapons. Allow me to offer you my own blades. A man should be able to defend his loved ones properly.”

Nelaros didn’t know what to say. Everything seemed to be moving so fast. The things he’d said in anger were now propelling him forward on their tide, and he was afraid of the places they would take him… but the faces of the women—of Valora, and of his own bride—pushed him on. He couldn’t back down now; it was too late.

Valendrian nodded, and the Grey Warden began to unfasten his weapons. Soris blinked owlishly at the human, wetting his lips with a nervous tongue.

“Couldn’t… Elder, couldn’t Duncan could go for help? They’d believe him, wouldn’t they? He’s a Grey Warden, a human. Someone would—”

Nelaros shot him a disparaging look. “Go where? The _guard?_ ”

He wanted to say more, to tell the boy that, if he was that afraid, he should stay here… but he found himself unwilling to make that wound, and afraid that if he pushed too hard Soris wouldn’t come with him after all.

If he was going to do this insane, ridiculous thing, Nelaros wanted to do it with company.

The Grey Warden shook his head as he passed across the weapons. “I’m sorry. Trust me when I say my intervention would cause more problems than it would solve.”

Nelaros arched a brow as he took the long, elegant dagger from the man’s hand. A human _would_ say that, of course. Still, the weapons would help. The dagger was a very bright, shiny metal, and it glimmered in the noon light, as if its surface was slicked with oil. He’d never really used one before. Carrying anything more than a dinner knife brought trouble in Highever.

He gave the Warden a nod of thanks, and looked at Soris trying to work out how to hold a sword that was almost as long as his own leg.

“Well, it seems your path is set,” Valendrian said, eyeing them doubtfully. “I pray the Maker looks upon it with favour.”

“You’re all insane!” the black-haired woman shouted from the crowd. “The guards will burn our homes down around us! They’ll kill us all!”

The hahren held up his hand. “Enough, Elva. You’ve had your say. They shall try, for their own honour and that of the women. We must trust in the Maker.”

Nelaros gritted his teeth. Perhaps Highever had just been a little light on religious instruction, but he didn’t remember there ever being a time in his life when trusting in the Maker had been enough.

On the other hand, what other choice did they have?


	6. Chapter 6

The elf who had promised to sneak them into the palace met them at the north gate of the alienage. He said his name was Talwyn, and he had all the good looks and graceful manners that Nelaros had associated with castle servants back in Highever.

Several years ago, when he was a very young boy, his mother had tried to get him a lowly place in the teyrn’s service. He’d been considered presentable enough: he was personable, had good posture, spoke well, and could be taught the etiquette expected of an elven servant to the gentry. He hadn’t wanted to do it, however, and his father had quashed the notion, declaring it was better that a young boy learn a trade.

Better learn how to supply shems with the basic things they needed, he’d said, rather than rely on their goodwill and how pretty they thought you were.

Nelaros supposed maybe he’d learned his prejudices from his father, but he shared the revulsion he remembered hearing in the old man’s voice, even if he’d not identified it as that at the time. It was true, wasn’t it? Elves as servants were little better than animals performing tricks: applauded for their grace and charm, but given no respect. When they aged, like Cyrion they were cast out, no longer wanted by their masters. The injustice of it made Nelaros dizzy if he thought about… and he thought about it more, in the short walk to the north gate, than he ever had before.

Thought upon thought piled up in his head, beating like a hundred drums inside his skull. He and Soris hid the borrowed blades as best they could inside their clothes—pulling on baggy tunics Talwyn supplied to hide their wedding finery—and they followed him across the back streets of Denerim, cutting across the narrow lanes and cobbled side roads to reach the pretty part of town.

The nobles’ estates sat close enough to the market to allow access to the finest and freshest goods, but far enough away to avoid the smells and noises. Beyond the chantry’s tower, their tiled roofs stretched out to fill the sky, and their fine gardens and courtyards made tranquil oases in the midst of the city.

The arl’s palace lay at the top of the city, the jewel among jewels, though they didn’t see the fine approach to the main gates, full of trees and neat pathways. Talwyn took them in through a side gate, passing along the same runs at the foot of the walls where gardeners’ boys and servants hurried on their errands.

Nelaros glanced up at the sky, and it still seemed so blue, so beautiful. The flowers were blowsy with the just-past glories of midsummer, and the air smelled sweet. His pulse was racing, his palms damp with sweat, and his head hummed with the madness of what they were doing. The borrowed dagger tucked into his waistband was warming against his skin, and when Nelaros looked at Soris, he saw every fear of his own mirrored and magnified in the boy’s face.

“Are you ready to do this?” he asked gently. “Cousin?”

Soris turned those wide, pale eyes on him, managing a small, loose nod. “I guess. This is… overwhelming.”

He reached out, clutching briefly at the fabric of Nelaros’ borrowed tunic, acknowledging the gesture he’d made in calling him kin, despite the fact it wasn’t yet official, and Nelaros saw his own thoughts echoed back at him. If they were exceptionally lucky, they would make it back to the alienage, and enough of this day that should have been so joyous would be preserved that the weddings would go ahead, and they would _be_ cousins. Heroes, too, Nelaros told himself. Saviours.

He swallowed hard and looked at Talwyn as the elf drew them to a halt by a rank of bushes not far from a side door. A gravel path led around the massive bulk of the building, the high walls fringed with pipeworks, carvings, and—further up the edifice—glass windows that sparkled in the sunlight. Nelaros had never seen Castle Highever up close, but there seemed to him no difference between that great cragged shape that had dominated his hometown, and the arl’s equally imposing estate.

It reeked of shemlen, and the anger that had fed every word he’d shouted in the alienage congealed in him, souring his mouth.

“Do we get in through there?” he asked, pointing to the heavy wooden door.

Talwyn nodded. “That’s right. It won’t be locked at this time, though there’ll be a guard posted inside. Don’t worry about him—he’s usually either drunk or sleeping. If he wakes, just tell him you’re on your way to the kitchens… they’re that way, to the east of here.”

Nelaros looked where he pointed, trying to see anything beyond the wide shapes of the walls. This architecture was foreign to him, too big and too complex. Soris had his arms wrapped around his middle, trying to hide the shaking of his hands.

“W-where will we find the women?”

Talwyn shrugged. “Don’t know. The family’s chambers are to the north, so if they’ve been taken to his quarters they’ll be there. Stick to the service corridors and you should have no trouble getting by unseen. After that… I don’t know.”

Soris nodded miserably. “Right.”

Nelaros felt ashamed of all the uncharitable thoughts he’d had about the boy. He looked terrified, and yet he hadn’t run. There was a potent kind of bravery in that… though Nelaros hoped he’d be able to swing a blade without cutting off his own foot.

“Will we get any help in there?” he asked, jerking his head towards the door.

Talwyn didn’t look convinced. “Maybe, but don’t think every elf you see is a friend. Plenty of bootlicks would sound the alarm just for a pat on the head.”

Bitterness laced his voice. Nelaros nodded, wishing for a moment that he’d not been so judgemental of those who served the shems. He silently promised the Maker, if He was minded to be listening, that—if this madness could come out well, if they could just get the girls away before anything awful happened—then he’d never make an arrogant judgement again. For the rest of his life, Nelaros promised, he’d be kind to his father-in-law, faithful and gentle to his wife, he’d even donate a portion of his wage to Denerim’s damn orphanage… he’d do everything right, if only this attempt succeeded.

“All right,” he said, tapping Soris on the arm. “Let’s go.”

“Good luck.” Talwyn smiled weakly. “Keep your wits about you.”

Nelaros nodded. “You sure you won’t come with us?”

The elf paled, shaking his head quickly. “I’m… sorry, no. No, I… I’d do more harm than good. I— I can try to distract the next guard patrol that comes by, but… I can’t go in there. I’m sorry. Good luck,” he said again, already starting to step backwards, as if he couldn’t wait to run from this place.

Nelaros stared at him for a moment, wondering at the kind of bravery that let a man help them get this far, then disappeared like a fart in the wind the moment the danger became real.

He understood it. If it hadn’t been for the thought of what lay in there—for the memories of how he’d protected Valora on the journey from Highever—he’d have liked to turn back too… but he couldn’t do that.

He had no choice; not if he ever wanted to be able to face his own thoughts again.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

It was easy to get past the guard; he was slumbering drunkenly, just as Talwyn had said.

Soris and Nelaros crept through the passageways, trying to look as if they belonged there. It was no easy task, when everything was polished stone and improbable opulence. Soris gawked at the carvings and tapestries on the walls, and Nelaros knew he was no better, staring at every little detail they passed. So many bright, rich colours. Outside, the estate had smelled of horse dung and flowers. In here, great painted vases held more blooms, and thick furs and carpets warmed the floors. Torches lined the walls, and great glass-paned windows lit the corridor from above, dusty shafts of light falling down in a way he’d only ever seen before in the big chantry building in Highever.

It should have been beautiful, but it was hard to see that amid the reality of the reason they were here.

Soris mumbled a little bit under his breath as they walked. Nelaros was fairly sure he heard part of the Canticle of Trials. He offered up another silent prayer to the Maker as they poked through endless hallways, hoping they were still following the route Talwyn had described.

Nelaros struggled to pick out recognisable functions for the rooms they passed: there were small chambers that seemed to be for the guards—perhaps the nobles liked to keep their watchdogs out of sight—and storerooms, and rooms that seemed to have no purpose at all except decoration.

“We’re lost,” Soris whispered, staring at a huge tapestry that depicted war hounds in battle.

“No we’re not,” Nelaros insisted, heading determinedly towards yet another hallway. “It’s this way. I’m sure of it.”

In truth, he was feeling less sure of everything by the second.

They ducked into a storeroom at the sound of a commotion at the end of the hallway, straining to make out what was happening. Nelaros’ heart lurched as he heard doors slam, female voices raised in fear and anger… and the brusque replies of male guards.

“Tie the last one,” a voice barked. “She’s the scrapper. Bloody knife-ears….”

Soris widened his eyes, his mouth slack. Nelaros nodded, mouthing a silent instruction and pointing to the end of the hall. The women were there… or at least some of them, but there was no sense in two untrained boys rushing the guards, even if they were occupied.

He started to wonder which of the girls was the “scrapper”, and quickly realised the shem must have meant Merien. Nelaros felt foolish for not thinking of that at once. Had she found a way of getting hold of a knife or something? He hoped she hadn’t given them cause to beat her too badly. At any rate, if she _could_ fight, at least she’d be able to help them. Three against however many guards there were was a better set of odds than two, and it was surely promising that the women didn’t seem to have been taken to Vaughan yet… wasn’t it?

Soris was already beginning to move, compelled by the knowledge his sister and cousin—not to mention the others—were close by. Nelaros caught his arm, holding him back against the wall until the sounds of struggle and rough male voices grew fainter. Soris glared at him: the first time he’d seen true heat in those soft blue eyes, Nelaros realised. He put a finger to his lips and, when he spoke, kept his voice to the barest whisper.

“Go get her. I’ll watch the hallway. We’ll go after the others together.”

Soris nodded, clutching Duncan’s longsword in his sweaty hands. The tip of the blade almost dragged on the flagstones.

Nelaros gave him a shove in the back, and they crept from their hiding place, moving around the corner into the hallway. Doors led off into other chambers—the Maker alone knew what was in them; as far as Nelaros was concerned, this damn place could keep its secrets—and flickering torches lit the whole stone corridor. Fewer tapestries lined the walls here… these were smaller rooms, meant for storage and the movements of servants. He assumed many of the storage chambers were for linens, and the corridor led to the quarters Talwyn had described, belonging to the arl and his family.

It was not uncommon for noble estates to have rabbit warrens like this inside them, Talwyn had said; the wealthy didn’t like to see their servants in action, and it always helped to have a quieter route to move whores and mistresses through.

It sickened Nelaros that those bastards should bring the women here, moving them like goods via the back stairs, though what human ever regarded an elf as more than an object, a piece of meat?

He drew the Grey Warden’s dagger out from under his borrowed tunic and shifted the thing in his grasp. The blade glimmered as he turned it, catching the torchlight in its surface, and showing him narrow slips of his own frightened face. He looked away, lowering the dagger and instead moving across the hallway, trying to see which way the guards had gone.

One door stood open, and Nelaros peered through the gap, seeing more storage spaces and shelves, some of the linens and boxes within knocked awry. Another door led off the room, and through it could be glimpsed a second, narrower and longer corridor. They must have gone that way, Nelaros thought, though exactly what lay beyond the small chamber he couldn’t guess. More labyrinthine corridors, he supposed, and more rooms en route to that bastard’s chamber. Who knew what was hiding there, or what they would find?

He turned on his heel, padding back towards the corner around which he feared more guards might wander. Surely Soris couldn’t take much longer. What was keeping him? Was Merien hurt? Had the guards—?

Nelaros pushed aside the horrible thoughts. He would have hoped that not being the prettiest girl in the wedding party might have kept her safe, but naturally it was no guarantee. The way that human had looked at her… the cruelty in his eyes had burned itself into Nelaros’ mind.

Soris had explained, vaguely, as they were making their way to the estate what had happened when the arl’s son tried to accost the women before—Shianni and her incident with the clay jug—and Nelaros supposed that explained the lengths Vaughan was prepared to go to for his retribution.

It was about saving face, exerting power… and power was the only thing that ever mattered for his kind.

Nelaros heard movement behind him. Finally! He turned, ready to greet Soris and Merien. This had hardly been an auspicious start to their life together, but maybe they could put it behind them. Maybe, just maybe, she might even think well of him for this madness… and he almost wanted to laugh at that. He would be her heroic husband, the man who stood up for her honour and her life. If they all got out of this alive, of course.

Nelaros had his mouth half-open to say they should hurry—if they could reach the others before the guards took them to Vaughan’s quarters, perhaps it would be possible to surprise the men, or strike some kind of deal, or… or _something_ —but the words died on his lips.

Three armed shems stood in the hallway, and one of them was smiling at him.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice a low, menacing grate against the air. “Look at this, boys… we got ourselves a little rat. What’s the matter, knife-ears? You get lost on the way to the kitchen?”

Nelaros’ heart pounded too hard and fast for him to speak. He lifted the borrowed dagger, trying to strike an intimidating pose. The shem sneered, and the two behind him scoffed, their hands already on the hilts of their swords.

“Oh, come on. What you gonna do with that, elf?”

“Th-the women,” Nelaros managed, lifting the blade. “What have you done with the women?”

The guard ignored him, instead turning to his comrades. “See, boys? It thinks it can demand answers. They’re arrogant little buggers. They run in packs, too… I bet you there’s more of ’em scampering around, tryin’ to play the hero.”

“Should we take him to Lord Vaughan?” one of the others asked.

His captain snorted, hand on the pommel of his sword. “Don’t be stupid! You think his lordship wants to be bothered with this one when he’s got the company of them lovely ladies? Nah… we’ll deal with the little rat. Right before we get our turn at the party.”

The bright silver blade dipped and shimmered in Nelaros’ hand, catching the torchlight and the anger in his face. He had never felt so much hatred before—never truly known he was capable of such strong, violent hate—and yet he wanted these men dead, wanted their blood to run in rivers on the stones.

He heard himself shout, felt his body move as if it was something unconnected to him. There was no conscious decision, no moment at which he accepted what he would do. That seemed strange. His whole life had been so carefully considered—every choice weighed and balanced, brokered and discussed—and yet now he flew at the humans, propelled by the weight of fury and injustice.

The dagger glanced off the first shem’s splinted leather breastplate, but Nelaros kicked out at his knee, twisting and gouging as he came around for the next strike. He leapt back, away from the man’s first sword swing, and it angered him even more that the shem seemed to be playing gentle with him, teasing instead of tackling him properly. Even now, they couldn’t take him seriously.

Nelaros drove forwards, colliding with the man, shoulder-to-chest, and shoving the dagger deeply into the join between breastplate and hipguard. The shem yelled, and the atmosphere changed. Blood smeared the bright blade, and Nelaros believed he heard the cries of the women echo in his ears. His wife, his friends… they should have been his people. They _were_ his people, and the bastards who dared defile them would pay in blood.

A fist connected with his head for the second time that day, and Nelaros spun, stars blurring his vision. He slashed at the first shem he saw, swayed away from the arc of a blade, and prayed Soris and Merien would join the fight soon.

It was not a prayer the Maker saw fit to answer.

Nelaros landed another few good blows, but it was three-to-one, swords to a single dagger, and he was unarmoured. The captain hit him in the back with the hilt of his sword—a hard, metallic punch that knocked the breath from him, sending a sheet of fiery pain shooting up his spine.

“Bloody knife-ear,” the shem muttered as Nelaros fell to his knees.

This was not how it was supposed to happen. This _couldn’t_ happen. The others needed him… the women needed help.

Nelaros gasped as the sword pierced his back. It seemed strange that it felt more like an intense pressure than a sharp pain. Suddenly, everything was fire, ice, and agony. He saw the smeared blur of leather armour move in front of him, felt the smoothness of steel against his skin, and felt his throat flow red.

It seemed wrong. Not here, not this place. He didn’t want to die among the stones of a shem’s palace. It shouldn’t have happened this way.

The world drew in on itself, growing tight and muffled and, as the room began to swim and darken, Nelaros folded gently to the ground. His hand was pressed beneath him as he lay, face down against the flagstones, and he moved his fingers feebly, feeling for the outline of the ring in his pocket.

In that long moment, the golden ring seemed important. It mattered. His masterwork, the finest thing he’d ever made; made for _her_ , that girl he’d never seen before today, and who he would now never see again. His bride, with the iron in her eyes and the close-lipped smile. He wished she could know he was sorry. And Valora… the little mouse. Was the mouse safe? Had she found a hiding place to scuttle into?

Nelaros closed his eyes, his cheek crushed roughly against the floor, his breath leaving him in one last, shallow rattle.

He felt the shape of the ring inside his pocket, and relief filled him at the knowledge it was still there… that narrow gilded band. Perhaps it shouldn’t have mattered so much. It was nothing important, just scraps of gold plastered over brass. A mirage, perhaps: a shiny trinket, but false all the same.

Not real, just a symbol of today. A thing that was meant to be taken for what it appeared to be—a golden ring, the promise of a life—and should never have any other meaning attached to it, never have that veneer scraped away, for beneath the gilding, there was no gold.

There had only ever been brass, covered with the pretence at something better. Given time, that wouldn’t have mattered, perhaps. There would have been a slow wear of years to imbue the metal with memories… the life that he and his bride would have shared, the children they might have had, the sweetness that could have been.

Perhaps it might have happened. But perhaps it had never been meant to be.

Perhaps, for his people, this was all there ever was. 


End file.
